By Blood Hunted: Kingsblood Chronicles Part Two (The Kingsblood Chronicles Book 2)

by David J. Houpt

  He shifted his position and then proceeded to carefully search through the assassin’s gear a second time, but Snog had been thorough and he didn’t find anything else. He examined the other goods, knowing he wouldn’t disturb the skull’s work even if he moved the frog or phial of blood, so long as they weren’t placed too far from Lord Grey. The two pieces of staff were rune-carved ash but otherwise unremarkable. He examined the man’s larger knives closely, finding hallmarks that he committed to memory. The blades were well-worn and carefully maintained, and they might come from the assassin’s point of origin. Probably not, Lian thought as he let Rula’s light play along the edge. Not poisoned, at least visibly…guess he preferred to rely upon his magic.

  Lian didn’t blame him, for the unnamed assassin had been a Master spellsinger who nearly did the prince in despite the magical defenses he had. Thank the gods I’ve been sleeping in the armor, he thought, though he hadn’t planned on stopping an assassin’s war dart with it. Instead, it had been partially protection against one of the crew getting adventurous; in truth he’d grown so accustomed to wearing the scale mail regularly that the light-but-resilient lashthirin didn’t seem much heavier than a thick cloth shirt, though it did restrict his movements more.

  The assassin’s smaller blades did appear to be poisoned, as were the spare darts for the launcher. Lian had studied many things, including the uses and effects of a variety of poisons, but he was no expert—Lord Grey and Snog were, however, and perhaps they could identify the poison. In any event, none of these weapons go to any of the sailors, he thought, and I’ll have to either destroy or keep the poison secure in the backpack with Lord Grey. The last thing he needed was to give men who might betray him access to the potent poisons he assumed the Easterner had carried.

  The numbers on the last written page of the journal appeared to be calculations. Looks like geometry, Lian said to Gem. Calculating our position somehow? The assassin had certainly possessed the means to find them, and he’d very much like to know how.

  “The smaller flask is warm to the touch,” Lian observed aloud. “Any ideas as to why?”

  “Because its contents are warm, or even hot?” Gem guessed, and the skull didn’t answer, continuing to study the vial and figurine.

  Lian’s lips tightened as he thought about that. He sniffed cautiously at the warm flask, blinking as he recognized the scent of coffee, though it was more pungent than the sorts he was familiar with. “It smells like coffee,” he said. “But that might just be to mask the scent of the contents.” He laid it down, careful not to dislodge the stopper.

  The jars, vials, and bags of components were labeled in some kind of flowing shorthand, likely meaningful only to the dead man, and Lian didn’t open any of them. Some of them might be traps for pickpockets, exploding in a cloud of poisonous powder, or in flame, and he didn’t want to risk it.

  “Okay,” he said. “Then why all the rubies, magically speaking?” Rubies were no less and no more valuable than most other precious stones, so as portable currency, gems made sense; Lian himself carried a number of gems secreted in various ways about his person. He’d even thought about placing one in each of Lord Grey’s eyesockets and adhering them with balsam gum, though he’d never quite dared to suggest it.

  “My guess is that he has a favored spell of some kind that uses it as a focus,” Gem said, “if the reason’s magic-related, that is. He might just like rubies.”

  Lian shook his head. “He might, but you’re on the right trail, I think. The jewelry is cheap but reasonably well-made, so it’s a spell he casts and then leaves it with other people.”

  “A compulsion, or divinatory?” Gem asked, thinking about it. “Probably a compulsion spell; he couldn’t be sure they’d keep the jewelry on or near them if it were for spying on people. There’s no trace of enchantment on them now, so it must be something he casts when he’s ready.”

  Lian sighed. “A lot of questions, and not very many answers,” he said. “Hopefully Lord Grey’s investigation will reveal more.”

  The skull chose that moment to speak. “Perhaps,” he said. “First, the phial. It preserves the blood and protects it from degrading over time. I thought perhaps it might be some of your blood at first, though I have no idea how he’d have come by it.”

  Lian shook his head. “I haven’t lost blood that could have been kept by someone,” he said. “Certainly not since the Tower, anyway.” It was conceivable that someone like his mother had taken blood from him when he was too small to remember, perhaps to locate him should he ever become lost. He hoped not, because he didn’t like the idea of his aunt and uncle finding such a thing, but he shook it off; they certainly already had hairs from his bed if they wanted them.

  “Look carefully at the color, Lian,” the necromancer said, and Lian picked up the vial and brought it close. “The material the phial is made from is clear, not tinted in any way.”

  “Ah, it’s elven,” Lian said as he carefully examined it in the light of the sun. Elven blood, if fresh (or preserved through magic) had a slightly more coppery color than human blood, just as goblin blood was much darker. “A ward against aging?”

  “Good idea, but no. The blood itself has no enchantments upon it. I believe it is either a scrying focus or a threat against someone; either way, it’s likely for thaumaturgy,” he declared. Thaumaturgy was not really a division of magic, like necromancy or artificing was, because all wizards could practice it in some fashion or another. Rather, it was more like a science, the ability of two items to be linked because they were similar enough or because they were one. Whoever the blood had been drawn from, he or she was vulnerable to the magic cast by the assassin, whether divinatory or a hostile charm or curse.

  “Not a threat,” Lian said. “Even if the elf in question has no mageblood, if they were under this sort of threat, they’d hire a mage to reverse the thaumaturgy to destroy this little sample. It might be insurance, to allow him to take revenge if someone crossed him, but that seems like an unlikely option as well.”

  “So it’s a scrying focus,” Gem said, “unless it’s something we haven’t considered yet. And that probably means the subject doesn’t know it was taken, or they’d have taken steps to destroy it, as well.”

  Lian nodded. “I may want you to try to take a look at this mysterious elf later, Lord Grey,” he said. “That is, if we can be reasonably sure we won’t create a hole in the sphere’s protection.” He knew a lot about magic—it ran strong in his family, after all—but many details were not clear simply because he hadn’t studied it as thoroughly as his mage-talented siblings had. He didn’t know what might pierce the Key of Firavon’s veil and what wouldn’t.

  “We won’t, Lian,” the skull replied. “Nothing any of us could do, save changing its size or discarding it, could allow something through that.”

  Lian nodded, thinking for a few moments. “What about the figurine?” he asked shortly afterward.

  “That’s both obvious and a puzzle,” Lord Grey said. “First, the obvious. It’s enchanted, once invoked, to always point at you, so I imagine the cork and bowl are to let it act like a compass, turning the cork until the nose of the thing is facing you.”

  “At me?!?” Lian exclaimed, startling slightly, then added, “You mean, specifically at me?”

  “Yes and no,” the skull responded. “It shouldn’t be able to locate you, because it’s a very simple, though effective, sympathetic bond magic. Anything like that, for example using the hair you must have left in your quarters to find you, the marble would shield against. It’s fairly well woven, but it is journeyman work at best, and that’s part of the puzzle.”

  “What do you mean?” Gem asked.

  “I’m a necromancer,” the skull said, “but I’m good enough at other colors of magic to be a pretty damned good diviner, and my best efforts, whether using the spell that’s inside that frog or other, more complex magic, would not be able to penetrate the veil around you. Not on my best day, or the m
arble’s worst, could I pierce it. This thing quite simply shouldn’t be able to find you, but even now, it’s trying to turn to face you.”

  “Hmm,” Lian murmured, then produced his skin and filled the small bowl with water, placing the cork on it.

  “Don’t touch the frog,” Lord Grey said quickly. “It’s possible the spell will cease functioning if it actually touches what it’s seeking. Snog!” the skull called loudly enough to carry.

  The goblin left the three surviving sailors and came over. He’d been keeping an eye on them, making sure he left Lian to speak uninterrupted with the two spellcasters. “Yes, Lord Grey?” he asked as he approached.

  “Lian must not touch the figurine,” the skull said. “Would you be so kind as to place it upon the cork and then wave your hand over it thus?” He broke into a brief song, and an illusion of a goblin’s hand making a pass over the bowl appeared for a moment or two.

  Snog nodded and did as he was bid. It took him a few tries to get the subtle gesture right, but he did it. The frog and cork had been bobbing about inertly until the goblin made the invocation gestures. Once he did as Lord Grey had bid, the cork began to swing to the right, bringing the nose of the frog around to point directly at Lian.

  “See?” the skull said. “It’s pointing directly at Lian…wait! Lian, stop moving!” The necromancer’s exclamation froze Lian in place. He’d been shifting his posture on the sand, intending to become more comfortable as they talked. The frog settled on a point just to the right of Lian’s head; in fact, it was pointing directly at his right hand.

  “Is that pointing at his hand?” Gem asked, her visual acuity not as good as the others’ while she was not touching Lian, but even to her it seemed that was exactly what it was doing.

  Lian looked absolutely puzzled, but being careful not to shift too much, he took his weight off of his hand and then moved it to his right; the frog turned to face it. He pulled his hand across his body, and the frog turned clockwise to face that position. “My hand…” Lian thought, staring at it perplexed. “Would it be possible for a spell trying to find a specific part of me to pass the veil?”

  “No,” Lord Grey said. “You, your body parts, your equipment, and even your companions if they don’t stray too far from you, are all covered by the veil. It even extends through time, so even someone trying to predict where you’ll be when the protection someday ends would fail to see you.” His tone was perplexed as well.

  “Elven blood,” Lian murmured, looking at the back of his hand. “Are the two items linked together in some way?”

  “I don’t see how,” Lord Grey replied. “What are you thinking?”

  Lian rather thought the necromancer wasn’t as perplexed as he pretended, because the conclusion the prince was drawing wasn’t that hard to reach, given events that occurred within the time Lian had known Lord Grey. Or rather, events that occurred in the skull’s presence.

  “Elowyn gave me a portion of his witchsight,” Lian said. “What if that’s not all he gave me? What if that jade cat figurine imbued me with something else?” The cat had bitten him on the hand to which the frog pointed, in fact.

  “What else?” Gem asked sternly. “What has he done to you?” She was grateful to Elowyn for her wielder’s continued survival, but she’d never trusted him fully, and didn’t now.

  “Even so, even if a piece of that same jade were inside your hand, and the frog’s homing on part of itself,” the skull replied, ignoring Gem’s question for now, “it should not pass the veil…unless…”

  Gem wanted to demand the skull finish that thought, but she made herself remain as silent and stoic as Lian and Snog were. The necromancer would say his piece when he was ready, and yelling at him might make him less likely to tell them.

  The necromancer sang a brief song, which Gem could see was more illusion magic, and suddenly Elowyn’s form appeared on the sand before Lian. It was as he had appeared in the illusion he’d left behind in the small jade cat figurine Lian had found in the scrying chamber in Firavon’s Tower, seated as Elowyn had been in the latter part of the message, but from a different angle. It was, in fact, from the vantage Lord Grey had experienced in the slot he’d been left in, though it was from a high enough point above that, the throne didn’t occlude the image.

  “The sphere is Firavon’s Key, Lian,” the illusory figure said softly enough not to carry to the three men, who were now headed toward the high tide mark where more driftwood could be seen. “Even at this late date, there is advantage in concealing from you how I gathered this knowledge.”

  The image seemed to flicker, then reformed standing. “The second item you need to take with you is the great crystal ball in the center of the room. That is the second reason I had my little cat totem bite you. When this illusion is complete, a portion of magical power will pass into you. It should provide you with enough power to command the sphere for a very short time,” it said, repeating part of what the Dunshor Master of Assassins had told Lian.

  The illusion wasn’t perfect. Elowyn’s features were a little indistinct, and his voice wasn’t right, but it was so close it raised the hairs on the back of Lian’s arms and his neck. Ignoring this, Lian asked, “What is your meaning, Lord Grey?”

  The skull chuckled. “He didn’t say it gave you his magical power, Lian,” he said. “And now I believe that it did not do so at all.”

  Lian’s brow furrowed. “I had mage talent, though,” he said. “It let me command the Key.”

  “It did give you mage talent, Lian,” the long-dead sorcerer repeated, chuckling. “Just not Elowyn’s.” It was an excellent deduction and very close to the mark, and although it wasn’t quite correct, he had no way to know this.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  “In the western kingdom of Stonehold, around the rule of Wizard-King Arysiandra, singing became a crime punishable by death. The small northern nation was a place without song, and without magic, for that was King Kaen’s intention. Kaen’s line was lacking in mageblood despite a number of attempts to breed it in, and the ruling house of Stonehold came to fear magic and mages.

  “The practice of destroying or banishing those with musical talent had its desired effect for a time, and the dark gray fortresses of Stonehold became bastions against magic. Or, at least, that was how the Stoneholders styled them. The end, of course, was predictable, and an uprising of those with mage talent occurred in 1833 PE, creating, in miniature, a northern version of the Theocracy of Mages.”

  -- “Bastions against Magic” by Wizard-Sage Vasha Lioel of Dunshor, 2238 PE

  The storm had taken its toll on Wavecrest and her crew, but they’d weathered it despite the damage to the windows. Celewyn himself had worked shifts on the pumps to keep her from foundering, and by rote of simple labor had earned the respect of many of the crew. He suspected, however, that if the captain and mates weren’t afraid of his reputation they’d have turned the caravel around and taken her back to Kavris. The destroyed port window and damaged starboard window made rough seas, especially following seas, more dangerous. A strong wave from behind could stave in the makeshift repair job and flood the ship.

  Celewyn wouldn’t hear of it, and privately made it clear to the captain that any attempt to reverse course back to Kavris would be tempting fate. He didn’t like to threaten, but he could not permit the caravel to deviate from its path. The remaining frogs had lost tracking on the first one, which meant either the frog was destroyed or it was inside the protective sphere of Firavon’s Key. He’d created the frog with Elowyn’s help, and he was surprised to learn that he’d considered the tracking frog to be a touchstone to his brother’s memory; the possibility of its destruction, to his surprise, grieved him.

  If Ammon had succeeded in killing Lian, even if the prince’s companions destroyed him at the same time, it simplified the Avani’s goals significantly, for all that would remain would be the death of the Usurpers. That would be a challenge, to be sure; the king and queen of Dunshor were without a d
oubt two of the best-guarded monarchs in all of Tieran.

  I will have to risk it, he decided. If Ammon lived and for some reason decided to spy upon Celewyn again, presenting a message to the scryer would give the Eastern mage information that could conceivably be used against Celewyn, but the assassin-mage would only bother to do so if he wished to snuff out the Shadow. That was a possibility, he conceded. The Avani had hurt the human assassin, possibly seriously, during the brief struggle while Ammon hovered over Wavecrest, and that had to have been a blow to the Easterner’s ego.

  No matter I must make contact with Lian before he becomes impossible to find again, he thought, knowing that he would likely recognize Ammon’s mystical touch and that reduced the risk; if it was Ammon, he’d simply not reveal the message. He didn’t know why the prince was in the southern continent at all, other than the possibility that he might believe it safer from Rishak’s assassins. Celewyn didn’t actually care why Lian was on Vella. But if he felt Vella was unsafe now that an assassin had found him, he might board yet another ship under another guise and it would become almost impossible to relocate him.

  Right now, he knew within a dozen miles where the assassin had gone, and therefore where the prince was, but the circle of possible locations was increasing by the hour. He gazed at the map with his directional markings, both on Lian’s location and Ammon’s track. Based on where Ammon’s track ended, Lian’s ship must have run aground and the prince was ashore. He realized he didn’t even know if Lian had survived, though Celewyn knew the prince had survived up to the point where he lost tracking on the Easterner. The first frog wouldn’t have allowed Ammon to find Lian if he weren’t, for the bit of Elowyn’s magic still within him would fade instantly if Lian was killed.

  He hated working this way, for his was a meticulous nature, but he had little choice. That had been true ever since Elowyn had contacted him that ill-fated night, for to fulfill his brother’s dying request he had no option but to proceed as he had. He nodded. If Lian’s spellcasters use the blood to scry upon me, I must be ready to communicate with them, he thought.