by T. A. Miles
The thought stuck its toe firmly in the threshold of his mental doorway. Much as he might try to welcome it with equanimity, it stumbled over his disbelief and he couldn’t be certain that his pride wasn’t deliberately tripping the idea as well. He honestly didn’t know either if it was in defense of himself, or of his mother that his pride made itself a factor. Before the latter carried too far, however, he reminded himself that no one had the right to hold anyone to their grief indefinitely. Sethaniel had lost his wife prematurely. If he had recovered and found love or companionship with another, well then, he had every right. The fact that a child had resulted was no more difficult to comprehend. Korsten would be certain not to speak of the topic until he had done so in a fair and reasonable manner.
“What would you recommend Cenily do?” the governor asked, and by the tone may have done so more than once during Korsten’s internal considerations.
Korsten lifted his gaze to him, then to the view behind Jahcery and back again before saying, “Rally the city’s men at arms.” There was some mental reflex to the way the reply was formed and delivered. “Consider what defensive resources you have, implement whatever preliminary siege strategies are available to you, and be prepared for word.”
“Word of war?” Jahcery said, though it was unlikely that he truly needed clarifying.
Korsten nodded anyway, and said only, “Yes.”
Jahcery committed the next few moments to studying his drink. When at length he returned his attention to Korsten, his mouth tensed somewhat ahead of his response. “I will take all of your words under due advisement.”
At the moment, that was all that Korsten could ask for. To push harder would likely only meet resistance. He accepted the governor’s answer with another nod and his thanks, and placed hope on what sincerity he was able to detect from the man himself, if not from the words.
A carriage was not immediately summoned from the governor’s estate. Since time had offered them some convenience in the immediacy of their meeting with Jahcery, over having to seek him out and await his availability, Korsten and Sethaniel walked beneath the shade of the rows of trees leading back to the gatehouse.
Sethaniel carried himself at a moderate pace for one of his years. Whether pride enabled it better than his health or stamina, Korsten elected not to inquire or comment for the time present. The gods knew that both of them had done their share of shirking whatever healthy amounts of sunlight a person was entitled to over the course of a natural life. It was in the less natural course of things that Korsten may have been better treating his body, and he wondered how much that may have been apparent to his father.
Korsten would not deceive himself with any thoughts on regretting his lack of aging, beyond whatever disservice it did to his father. But beyond that guilt, he could not honestly say that he would have preferred to age normally in the time that had passed since Haddowyn. He was grateful to have aged emotionally and intellectually—he would not have wanted to remain a young fool for the duration of his life—but he had no desire to see himself literally an old man. He hadn’t considered it in great detail before this moment, but in this moment, faced with a potential future represented in Sethaniel, he realized that such a fate was not at all what he wanted, and not strictly for the vain reasons he might have considered in his twenties.
The Vassenleigh Order had indeed opened up new doors for Korsten, new pathways to duties and obligations which extended beyond being the wise and irritable elder of a community with only a word to offer on the eve of battle. A wise word, yes—Korsten had no doubts about the value of Sethaniel’s or any experienced elder’s advice at such a time—but his place was in the physical struggle as much as the intellectual.
Sethaniel made a conspicuous clearing of the throat noise and Korsten glanced over at him. He observed the elder frowning, looking at the path ahead of them. He began to consider the individual who was half his brother again, considering mostly how near he had come to him simply by being in Indhovan at all. True, the population was much higher than in other cities and the fact of the matter may have been that he had never really come close to even brushing shoulders with someone who had walked by his brother as a stranger, but still…it was interesting to think about.
“You should know that you might have spoken to him directly,” Sethaniel said, clairvoyant in that moment, except that the topic had probably been firmly on the elder’s mind since its mentioning in the governor’s office.
Korsten considered the number of individuals he’d legitimately encountered in Indhovan and began to shake his head with doubt. He’d really only been in contact with Irslan Trier and his peculiar house servant, the aged chief constable, a handful of younger constables…there was no one who came immediately to mind who had struck him familiar in any way. And he could only assume that a Brierly would be familiar to him, perhaps now more than before, considering the nature of his talents. There would be something about a family member’s blood that would strike him in some way. He was certain of it. But regardless of whether or not that were true, he really had not had contact with a broad assortment of individuals in Indhovan.
“No,” Korsten began, “I really don’t believe so.”
“I do,” Sethaniel said, very nearly interrupting. He indicated the house behind them with a glance back in its direction. Korsten looked back as well, contemplating his father’s chain of reasoning while the elder continued. “You would have gone to the governor’s manor; would you not have? Just as you did here…to collect information, or to advise…”
“Oh,” Korsten said while the elder’s voice tapered off. Sethaniel had a valid point, and while that certainly had been the intention when he and Merran arrived in Indhovan, events precluded meeting with Governor Tahrsel. “Actually, I wasn’t able to acquire an audience with the governor there. Merran and I tried, but circumstances would not have it. He must hold office, then?”
How like a Brierly, to become involved in politics.
While Korsten’s mind was poised to veer in that direction, Sethaniel’s expression seemed to contradict. It did so tentatively, though, as if there were something about the pending explanation that he found either awkward or distasteful. That only piqued Korsten’s interest further, but it also instilled a new sense of sympathy for his father, one he might not have felt since he was very young…having witnessed Sethaniel’s grief over the loss of his wife. Korsten had rejected the sensation then, and started a dark seed germinating in his heart. Now, he was not so inclined, but he couldn’t imagine what made the current topic so difficult for Sethaniel. Clearly, his second son was still alive. It would seem unnaturally cruel of the gods to have taken another love from the man, but perhaps it was that. Or perhaps it was fear over the proximity this other child was to danger currently. It didn’t feel like fear, or even grief, though. It felt more like…regret.
“Why is he in Indhovan?” Korsten hazarded to ask.
Sethaniel found the route provided by Korsten’s question easier than forging his own, and promptly replied, “He’s there with his mother…and her husband.”
And that made sense of it. Naturally, there were more details to be had, but now was not the time to press for them—if ever there would be such a time. Still, Korsten wondered briefly if he should ask what happened, but Sethaniel’s pride might make that more arduous than it needed to be, or it was possible that his remorse for whatever might have gone wrong in that would only induce stress. He decided for now that it was best to let Sethaniel divulge information on the topic at the pace and in the amount that he was prepared for. It was likely that he had spent much of the time they’d taken walking from the governor’s house to prepare himself for having said anything at all.
There was only one thing more that Korsten desired to know. “What is his name?” He realized as the words formed that he should clarify and in clarifying that he was not curious about the adopting father, he rather easily accepted that he was referring to his own family. “My brot
her’s, I mean.”
“Deitir,” Sethaniel answered readily and maybe with some small measure of relief. “His name is Deitir Tahrsel.”
Korsten slowed nearly to a stop, his gaze fixing firmly on his father as it struck him why Sethaniel presumed that a visit to the governor’s home would have led to a meeting, or even to a conversation with his brother. His brother was the governor’s adopted son.
That meant that Cayri had met him, that the young man she’d spoken of having been in attendance at an activists’ meeting with Lady Tahrsel, the son whose adoption may have been unhidden knowledge, was Sethaniel’s child. Lady Tahrsel, who to Korsten’s knowledge at least sympathized with the role of priests and the Vassenleigh Order in Edrinor’s current and longtime crisis, had at one time been his father’s lover.
Korsten had come very close to meeting both or either of them, yes. It was…well, now it was astounding to consider. He almost wished that he had met them before knowing, just so that he could compare his feelings—ignorant to aware—but now that he was aware, he deeply wanted to look at and witness these two who had affected Sethaniel at a time when Korsten had had himself busily believing that his father was beyond being affected.
The sea harbored a curious air of tranquility about it. Deitir studied the still waters from the office, high above the rest of the city, noting that the only real sign of anything significant happening was the movement of the ships. Even so, watching them maneuver could have been observing the harbor on a particularly active day among merchants and traders. Not that he had been a witness to war or battle of any kind in his life, so he supposed he wouldn’t know precisely what it should look like. Still, he imagined it differently. A part of him expected to already see things on fire.
Soon enough, he assured himself unhappily.
At this moment, the anticipation was the worst of it. It had been a long night and it was panning out to be a longer morning. Deitir was learning quickly that leadership involved a fantastic amount of waiting to see how one’s orders would be carried out. It came with a certain note of helplessness that he had not anticipated, even observing his father lead the city for years. Deitir had felt better in charge when he was sneaking about trying to gain audience with a priest whom his father wanted nothing to do with. He had asked Cayri to help his father then—not very long ago—and she had, but in doing so Raiss had fallen out of one spell and into another. Deitir had been acting in his father’s role since then and it had not taken a long time doing it for him to feel all the tension and frustration the office could hold.
“We’ve received word that the skiffs are being aligned as planned. Evacuation of the designated areas is making progress. Men are positioning along the cliffs.”
Fersmyn’s words were not lost on Deitir, but he withheld response while he considered time, and how they seemed to have very little of it, and all too much at the same time. He felt as if the enemy were already present somehow. With that feeling, he couldn’t be comforted by the knowledge that the enemy they had discovered within the caves had already been removed as an immediate threat. If they had infiltrated so easily once before, what was to stop them from doing so again? It had been the purists who enabled it, though the beginnings of it had been initiated by the cult from the Islands. True, the purists had assisted in undoing the wrong committed by their former leader, but how loyal were they to the city? Could they yet pose a threat?
He disliked not knowing more about them, and though Lord Ceth had cautioned him to make himself more familiar with them, there had been no time for it. It would have helped a great deal, even if only in the realm of comfort, if either of the priests who had partaken of that endeavor regarding the uncovering of the purists’ secret agenda were present.
But neither of them were.
“Ships are out,” the deputy governor continued, “And a roughly formed unit of constables is on its way to the Islands’ inner rim.”
Cayri was present, of course, but she’d had very little to do with that entire affair. As far as Deitir knew, neither she nor Vlas had entered foot into the caves which networked the cliff wall.
As the thought formed, Deitir looked over his shoulder for the lady priest, finding her sat in one of the office chairs, looking over a book that belonged to Irslan Treir. Writings by the man’s uncle, Deitir believed. She must have been looking for clues about the Islands’ cult, individuals in positions of leadership…something.
Did they have time for that just now?
Don’t fall apart, he told himself and in the process, he finally looked over his shoulder at Fersmyn. “Good,” he said to the man. “Thank you.”
It was at that point when Cayri looked up at him. Deitir made eye contact with her, which lingered long enough for him to form a questioning look that he changed his mind about near immediately. Cayri did that often, particularly when she was analyzing. If she was analyzing him, he wasn’t entirely certain that he wanted to hear about it just at the moment. He felt a mess and out of his league.
Behind him, Cayri and Fersmyn exchanged niceties. Deitir tried not to hear them, perhaps in preparation for not listening to what followed when he and Cayri were alone again.
“How are you faring?” the lady priest asked him.
As much as Deitir didn’t want to discuss the topic, he did understand that it served no one to hold anything in at this hour. He needed Cayri’s support, which meant that he had to remain open with her. Glancing over his shoulder in her direction served him a new weakness lately, one that had little to do with the impending battle with an enemy fleet.
“Deitir,” Cayri prompted in his silence.
“It’s nothing,” he lied. With a frown and a short exhale, he corrected himself. “It’s everything.”
Cayri stood, and that did little to help him cope as she had a beautiful form. Her layers of brown riding garb covered her to her collar region, but it covered her well and the color accentuated the honey-gold of her long hair and the liquid green tone of her large eyes. Deitir supposed that he was attracted to her from the start, though without being so acutely aware of it. It must have been the stress of the hour insisting that he recognize it now.
Whether or not Cayri was in any way percipient to these passing notions, she said nothing to indicate that she was. Her advice came in typical form. “Maintain vigilance, Deitir. This city requires it, as does Edrinor.”
The weight of that statement should have collapsed him, but whenever Cayri said such things it did not. He felt renewed, because something about her enabled him to see the scope of things and how connected all of it was.
“Can we expect any more assistance?” Deitir asked.
Cayri watched him for a moment, and then shook her head. “We must not expect it. Though it is my hope that some will arrive.”
Deitir’s jaw tensed briefly and he nodded. So be it, he determined, casting his gaze back to the ships.
Stood before the grand windows of the Treir library, Vlas felt that he preferred the privacy of Irslan’s house to the governor’s manor. Though, as much as he felt that, he realized that privacy meant detachment from current affair as it was occurring. It was unfortunate that he had to choose one location over another. He would like to receive information from both sources simultaneously.
“The practice of magic among the Islands began as a form of folk art and ritual” Irslan was saying from his seat in a plush chair before a small table. “My uncle’s descriptions of it are not too different from the purist rituals that carry on within Indhovan. Of course, my commentary on the matter is restricted to my limited knowledge on the topic, most of it acquired recently through time spent in the company of Ersana, and Dacia.”
The latter party was indicated with a nod in the direction of a bench before the parlor window, where the mentioned girl was currently sat. Long dark hair fell around her shoulders while she poured her concentration over many thick threads, which she had been weaving together throughout the morning.
“
Yes,” Vlas murmured, watching the young cousin of his continued host, now that his attention had been directed to her. She was a child of a misguided man and a woman possessed by an archdemon.
What did that mean, exactly?
To observe her, it meant very little of immediate notice. Of course, she was somewhat… strange, for lack of a better word, but it was debatable as to whether or not that strangeness could be attributed to her parenting, or to her lifestyle as the adopted daughter of a leader of a community of witches. Dacia’s behavior was on the whole polite. She seemed reasonably considerate of others, though her social grace was somewhat clumsy—she had a habit of blatantly staring at individuals who caught her interest. Her oddest, and perhaps, more hazardous attribute, was the manner in which she could be so readily possessed, not only by demons, but by spell of her father as well.
The spell had been of Islands cult origin, and no such spell seemed to be within the catalogs of either the priests of the Vassenleigh Order, or the purists within Indhovan. The nature of it reeked of the Vadryn, so it made sense to assume that the Islands cult had been developed by magic sourced from demons. The magic of demons was as ill-begotten as anything of ill origin could be, and by the appearances of the well that had been buried, the primary resource had been the cultists themselves. So, not only were they feeding a demon, but they were feeding off themselves as well, being fed of what had been harvested from their own blood. It was cannibalism.
Vlas couldn’t conceive of a more dangerous way for men to empower themselves, short of possession itself. Possession had been the fate of the woman who had hosted Serawe. Her followers had been dying slowly as they donated their life literally to a collection pool. The process had turned many of them to ghouls, Vlas recalled all too clearly. Thankfully, most of them had been put under with the well. Without the demon present, he could only wonder if the practice could carry on. His imagination allowed for the possibility that if the cultists were to ingest affected blood from the well itself…