by T. A. Miles
Deitir pulled his gaze from the pair of elders, looking at Korsten with a face that would have haunted him, had he not reunited with Sethaniel first—he looked strikingly similar to the father they shared, and precisely like a Brierly…a form more suited to what Korsten imagined his father might have looked like younger.
“Indhovan is grateful to you, Priest Korsten,” Deitir said.
And it was then that Korsten felt acutely how much they were strangers to one another. He accepted the young governor’s thanks and said in return, “Our work has barely begun.”
He and Cayri exchanged knowing glances afterward, while Deitir’s attention was recaptured by his mother, who introduced him to Sethaniel. No mention was made of parental connection, though Korsten suspected Deitir might be wise to that detail all the same. He also did not appear particularly pleased by it, but if the man who’d lately died was his adoptive father, that may have been expected.
A casual exchange ensued between father and son, and it was then that Sethaniel indicated Korsten by placing a hand on his arm. “Ilayna, this is Korsten,” he said, followed by, “You might remember him.”
He had barely completed the sentence when Ilayna spoke in a tone of surprise which began to override her grief. “Your son,” she said. “My gods, Sethaniel…he’s beautiful.”
“He inherited a good deal from his mother,” Sethaniel said, either incidentally or intentionally reminding Korsten of their conversation on the ship, regarding his Morennish heritage.
“Yes, he has,” Ilayna continued. She continued to observe him. “And you believed him lost. We all believed you lost,” she said, finally speaking to Korsten rather than of him. “We met only a few times when you were very young. I’m sure you don’t remember me.”
That was quite true. He did not recall her at all, by face or by name.
“It seems that you were rescued by priests,” she said next.
“You cannot know how true that is, dear Lady,” Korsten replied
Ilayna smiled very slightly. “You’re very graceful,” she concluded. “Thank you for coming back.” Her attention went next to Sharlotte and Lerissa. “Thank all of you. We’re very grateful.”
They accompanied Ilayna and her son to the central office of the governor—the battle room, given the circumstances. Korsten saw his father to the table and to a seat with as little awkwardness as he could muster. He was still as wary of Sethaniel’s age as Sethaniel was leery of others regarding it.
“I’m not at all surprised that you managed to make your way here,” a man said to Sethaniel.
Korsten regarded the fellow with a glance, capturing the image of a man younger than his father, but no longer young, with dark hair and sharp features. Sethaniel appeared as if he was prepared to bark at the individual for some reason or another, so he withdrew for the moment. He turned to face Vlas, conveniently as it seemed the other priest was on the verge of asking for his presence. Korsten made it easier by walking with him a few steps from the table.
“Cayri told you of Merran,” Vlas said, seeking confirmation.
“Yes, she did,” Korsten answered. And then, “I know not to expect him here immediately.” Or at all was silently added, perhaps more by Vlas, who seemed more distressed about the matter than Cayri had been. Korsten reminded himself that Merran was in the presence of Eisleth now. There was no better place for him to be with an injury, no matter how dire it may have been.
Vlas let the matter lie in favor of another. “What became of Serawe?”
“She was taken out to sea,” Korsten replied.
“Out to sea?”
“Yes, and there she was diminished by the ocean current.”
“Thankfully you weren’t taken by it as well,” Vlas concluded without indicating whether or not Korsten’s answers were satisfactory to him. He went directly to the next topic of interest. “I fear that Morenne may have already claimed the Islands. It feels lost to the state Serawe had brought it to, completely.”
“Do you believe there are more demons present there?” Korsten asked him.
“Possibly, and a population loyal to demons. Perhaps a population of Morennish soldiers as well. They could well have established a secondary camp on any one of the Islands, and we’d certainly be none the wiser, not with the way communication has been deliberately befuddled between them and this city for years. I’ve advised the governor not to rely on them.”
Korsten digested Vlas’ assessment. Before he had done so fully, a familiar elder appeared in the open doorway. The look on Constable Rahl’s face was fairly panicked.
“They’ve come on land,” he announced.
And there was no more time for talk.
Sharlotte appeared beside them and practically extracted Korsten physically from Vlas’ side. “You’ve been to the waterfront?” she asked him briskly.
“Near enough,” Korsten replied, repainting the image in his mind even as she issued the request he already anticipated.
“Take me there.”
Korsten wasted no time doing so. Within moments and without time for departing words with anyone, he and Sharlotte travelled by Reach to a street not far from Irslan’s home. He recalled somewhat irrelevantly seeing Master Treir in the governor’s office, and he was grateful to see him unharmed. Those most in danger now were the soldiers in this area, several of which rushed around the priests who had appeared suddenly in their path.
Sharlotte looked about, quickly assessing placement of her surroundings, living and inanimate. The sound of battle was within hearing range, so they had evidently Reached near enough, perhaps on the edge of too near. The memory of the bolt to the shoulder Lilende had delivered him created a sharp nudge where the wound no longer existed, even as a scar. The only scars he had retained were either emotional, or of a type delivered by demons. Both the seal on his neck and the still tender area where Serawe had clawed him flared somewhat in that instant.
Sharlotte began to walk quickly in the direction of the battle. Korsten accompanied for the time being, whether that had been her intention or not.
Twelve
“THERE’S BEEN NO WORD of troops along the cliffs,” Deitir explained to one of the new priests present—a very young-looking woman with bright blond hair and brighter eyes. At a glance, she and Vlas could have been siblings. Even their manner was similar, particularly in the sense that it was so remorselessly forward.
“So, those are troops that are occupied with waiting,” she decided. “Perhaps needlessly.”
“Not needlessly,” Rahl told her, disregarding her apparent youth, her gender, or her station as a priest. He spoke to her in the same firm tones he typically addressed any of his men—and any of the women—under his supervision. “If forces arrive on the cliffs, we’ll be crushed between both sides, above and below.”
“Yes,” Vlas agreed. The agreement seemed to surprise Rahl momentarily. It at least kept the elder silent while the priest furthered to explain. “It would be a risk to leave it exposed, but it’s a risk also to leave them there, as it was a risk to visit the nearest island, as it was a risk laying the fire trap.”
“I wish I’d witnessed that,” Lerissa said, and Deitir struggled with how to regard that…whether it was misplaced enthusiasm or an important regret in the sense that she was legitimately without certain information and therefore could not implement that information into her tactical considerations.
Deitir took it for the latter, since he’d gone through the effort to formulate it as an option at all. He couldn’t say that he felt entirely comforted by the presence of the other priests yet. One of them had vanished with Korsten, whom Deitir had only just in recent moments met and Lerissa was peculiar in a way that moved too quickly around Deitir for him to comfortably absorb. At least he was accustomed to Vlas, and thankfully, his previous behavior had not made things awkward in Cayri’s presence. The worst sensation of stress now, other than the invasion itself, was his mother’s old friend.
He immed
iately banished further consideration of the elder, however. There was far too much to focus on, all of it far too urgent for even important family concerns, let alone something that could not possibly matter now.
Leave it be, he instructed himself, and continued to observe Vlas and Lerissa. The latter seemed to be studying the map as if it were a platform upon which her thoughts were pieces of a puzzle awaiting correct placement. He suspected that she was quite intelligent. As the girl priest slid along the table, rearranging her view of their city upon parchment, Deitir was forced to move aside as well. His arm brushed with someone’s, someone who scarcely budged.
Deitir looked over at Firard, noting that the man’s attention seemed divided between the map and the doors…or the side of the room nearest the doors. Deitir’s gaze went in that direction as well, but he saw nothing important and so returned to the map. Firard stayed less focused beside him, and now that he was thinking of it, Firard had come to be at his side frequently in the brief time since his father passed. Deitir presumed it was over suspicion of an attempt on his life, especially now that events had made him the most prominent figure of authority and leadership in the city, and at an exceptionally vital hour.
“If a portion of the troops were to be brought down from the wall,” Lerissa was saying, tracing a path along the map with narrow fingertips, “it might be possible for them to circle about this way and divide the surge of Morennish troops.”
The surge, Deitir considered. It was a wave after all that would destroy them, even if it wasn’t one of water.
“It might work,” Vlas said. “But it might also be a maneuver the enemy is waiting for, and we’ll find them atop the cliffs with greater force than we’re prepared for.”
“Can we lay more traps?” Lerissa asked next.
“We’ve no more of the fire tactics,” Deitir inserted, his gaze catching sight of Fersmyn, who was bent over the table trying to follow the priests’ logic and correlate it with his own.
“But there must be something else,” Lerissa continued. “What of the water? Is there no reason why we can’t use the water against them?”
“The water?” Deitir echoed. “What do you mean?”
He looked to Vlas and others at the table only to see that none of them seemed any better able to imagine her scheme than he was, though Vlas eyed his fellow blond in a way that indicated he was swiftly assembling notions of his own and deeply interested in hers.
“I mean the waterfall, my lovely,” Lerissa said to Deitir’s question.
“What of it?” Deitir wanted to know, failing to be flattered by this exuberant, probably ancient girl. She was peculiar, and if not for the circumstances and the fact that she was a priest, he might have been inclined to ask that she leave.
“It’s a natural trap, of course,” Vlas said, in collusion with her in the market of peculiarities and an almost secretive wit. The both of them together scarcely fell short of insufferable.
“How do you suggest we persuade an army of experienced, potentially demons-driven soldiers to slip into a waterfall?” It was Fersmyn who asked it, and if not him, Deitir had surely intended to.
Alledar huffed nervously from his place just a chair away from Master Brierly. The stress of this recent onslaught seemed near to finishing him while the much older man beside the overweight officer seemed only irritable over having to attend such a meeting at all. Deitir felt a pang of pity for Alledar, considering how stress had largely contributed to his father’s suffering, even before recent events.
“I’m suggesting a Mist spell, of course,” Lerissa said to Fersmyn, and Deitir almost felt it necessary to mock her matter-of-fact delivery just to spare himself feeling like a fool over it. In that moment he happened to glance across the table at Cayri, and then he did feel the fool. He was behaving impatiently, and childishly again. He found it remarkably difficult to control since his father’s passing. He would strive harder.
“Priest Lerissa,” he began after a breath to even his feelings. “If there’s a means by which you can force or trick our enemy into drowning, then I encourage you to please do so.”
“We shall, Governor,” she said, and then she smiled at him, oblivious to or unaffected by his prior tone.
“I’ll take you,” Vlas volunteered, and it was noted that Constable Imris adopted a departing stance in the same moment Lerissa was agreeing to go with her fellow priest.
“What of the division of troops?” Fersmyn asked while the priests were withdrawing from the table.
“Yes, that should happen,” Lerissa replied.
“Firard,” Deitir said, looking over at the man, who seemed not to anticipate being addressed at the moment.
He looked back at Deitir with a questioning expression.
“Would you accompany the priests and assist them and Captain Gairel in the reorganization?” Deitir asked him.
Firard hesitated. In the same moment, Ilayna came forward. “He shouldn’t be out there. His arm…”
“Ilayna,” Firard began with a protesting frown.
The exchange between the two seemed to roust some focus from Sethaniel Brierly, though no words yet from the elder. He merely raised his brow that was heavy with age and his paling dark eyes moved between the two.
“The situation is not yet so dire that the injured need be among the fighting,” Ilayna decreed.
“There’s less risk on the cliffs currently,” Cayri interjected, which seemed the release Firard was waiting for.
“Yes, I will go,” he said. He stepped around the table to join the priests. Along the way, he told Ilayna not to worry, though it would make no difference and the manner in which she tilted her face said as much. Deitir knew well that his mother defied instruction from anyone on how to feel or think, no matter how well-intentioned or practical. It had been a point of mild to severe conflict between Deitir’s parents throughout his growing up within their house.
Ilayna watched Firard depart with the blue-dressed, blond pair of priests and then slowly made her way to Deitir’s side. Deitir observed her hand slip across Sethaniel’s shoulders when she passed him. He could tell that they were a comfort to each other. He determined yet again not to consider why.
Upon arriving at the battle, Sharlotte wasted no time. Korsten could not help but to be impressed, if not somewhat disturbed by the swift and forceful manner in which she isolated a group of the enemy and cast a combination of quickly and expertly gestured spells upon them. It was his own assault all over again, but several times more powerful as the magic augmented itself in a casting that withheld nothing. The Blast struck the men as solidly as a boulder, one encircled with Fire. Korsten watched, almost horrified, while Morennish soldiers were literally thrown smoldering into the air. He’d yet to witness a warrior at full strength before now. It was an entirely different process to the more precision efforts of a hunt. Worse might have been the way it seemed to satisfy Sharlotte. She was an extraordinarily aggressive woman.
In the wake of her assault upon the enemy, Indhovan soldiers exhibited a moment of startled pause, then seemed to sort matters out for themselves and moved in quickly to finish survivors among their thrown enemies before moving on to new opponents, of which there were plenty. From their vantage atop one of the city’s many sloped roads, Korsten could see torches riding in from the water as if a glowing tide. It was to Indhovan’s advantage that Morenne had to make their way up hill, but their numbers were fantastic; far more than Korsten wanted to realize, though he knew better than to expect another Lilende. He was realizing only now how minor a battle that had actually been, in spite of its strategic importance to the larger part of the war. He realized also that it was Morenne’s numbers, along with their demon allies that posed the greatest challenge. If only the Vassenleigh Order had more with Sharlotte’s specific skill set, though he imagined many of them were already occupied along the western front. What Sharlotte had accomplished in a first strike was astounding. He could see, though, that she was in no rush
to make a second attack, and that was the downside of the ability…of priests in general; both they and the magic could become exhausted if not properly administered. They had to pace themselves. Demons, on the other hand, did not tire and they strengthened the bodies they were in as much as they damaged them. The damage done was of no concern to the demon and the toll their presence took on the human soul would likely never be consciously realized by the host.
“Be alert for possessed soldiers,” Sharlotte said to him, almost telepathically, and then she stalked ahead of him, following after the men she had opened a path for.
Korsten sensed none of the Vadryn immediately present; either possessed soldiers or demons without vessels. They were there nonetheless, in the near distance, blended among soldiers elsewhere. He took a step after Sharlotte, then considered Song. Even without Song seeming to work itself since it came to Resonance, Allurance alone could draw the Vadryn to him. And that would draw them to Sharlotte and to any soldiers nearby. He would have to take more care than he had when alone with Merran in the caves. If he was going to move through this quagmire of heated blood and reckless affliction of suffering, he would have to do so separately of others. Perhaps in doing so, he could draw the greater threat to him and turn the trending swell of this particular tide.
Could he do again what he’d done to Serawe and the lesser demons surrounding her? He had no idea whether or not he could, or whether or not it would be the proper method. He didn’t know the proper method, in all honesty. And in this, there was no one to teach him. The one person who might have been able to might well have died as payment for daring to master what may not have been intended for anyone to wield. This talent and the spell which came of expressing that talent may well have been a trespass upon the gods’ domain.
Another eruption of magic accompanied the cries of men at war and suffering for their warring. Korsten looked to the hazy, darkened sky overhead, let his thoughts caress over memories of Merran’s encouragement, and trust…and he began pushing Allurance. He was coming to realize that there was a threshold, which when crossed over, set the Song talent and subsequently the casting of Siren into motion. So, perhaps it was a gesticulation after all, but not of hand. Rather it was one of emotion, and thought.