Highlords of Phaer (Empire of Masks Book 1)

by Brock Deskins

  “Oh, relax, Jareen. It was a jest, although perhaps poorly timed.” He waved a hand at the food on the table. “Take this away. I have lost my appetite.”

  “Yes, sah. I will begin adding honey to your tea. That should ease the irritation in your throat and suppress the coughing until I can concoct a better remedy.”

  “Excellent, Jareen. I can always count on you.”

  “You certainly can, sah,” he replied as he gathered up the dishes and carried the loaded tray out.

  Carefully navigating the stairs leading down to the galley, Jareen placed the tray on a table. “Share this with the crew,” he told the cook. “Do you have any honey on board?”

  The cook, Lorne, cast his eyes toward a cabinet. “A bit.”

  “Good. Use it only for Sah Auberon’s tea, nothing else.”

  Lorne shrugged, unconcerned, since he had no intention of using it. Something flitted past the doorway, grabbing Jareen’s attention. He left the galley and returned to the main deck. He peered through the gloom, but saw only the dark shapes of the night crew bustling about and checking the rigging.

  Jareen crossed the deck and disappeared through the hatch leading down into the hold. He paused only a minute to look at the arcane sigils carved throughout the ship’s bulkheads and inlaid with gold, thankful for the eldritch light they cast to illuminate the otherwise dank interior.

  Quiet as a shadow, Jareen crept toward the sound of someone skulking about the large chamber. The screech of nails being pulled from wood broke the relative quiet. Touching a hand to his sword hilt and feeling reassured by its presence, Jareen emerged from behind the mainmast and found Quinlan using his sword to pry open one of the crates containing the explosive powder.

  “Chief Inquisitor!” Jareen called out as he approached.

  Quinlan spun about, startled by the unexpected company, and flashed Jareen a sheepish grin. “Ah, Jareen, this is almost embarrassing. Since you are here, why don’t you be a good man and help me open this.”

  “I think not. I must insist you cease your prying, in both its meanings, and depart.”

  Quinlan pressed his lips together in a tight line. “I am afraid I cannot, in good conscience, ignore what might be in these crates and the potential threat they may represent.”

  “There is no threat, Inquisitor.”

  “How can I be certain unless I know what is in them? It is not as though I do not already know, but without proof, it is useless to question Sah Auberon about it. Let me see this silly powder of yours so I can make further inquiries without having to endure Auberon’s pointless denials.”

  “I cannot do that, Inquisitor. You must leave at once, or I will have to inform Sah Auberon of your intrusion.”

  Quinlan flicked his index finger like a striking snake. “That is a wonderful idea. You go and tell on me. By the time Auberon returns to chastise me, I will have this crate open and have identified the contents. No? It seems you are in a bit of a predicament, Jareen.”

  “I cannot allow you to open that crate.”

  Quinlan sighed. “Coming from a lowborn family, I do hate to pull rank, but I must remind you that you are a slave, and I a highborn. I command you to open this crate.”

  Jareen shook his head. “I have orders from my master, who is of far higher standing than you, to defend his property.”

  “How are you going to do that, Jareen? Will you fight me?”

  Jareen drew his sword. “If I must.”

  Quinlan raised his sword into a guard position. “Ah, just when I thought this trip was going to be boring.”

  “Please, Inquisitor, just leave.”

  “I cannot do that.”

  “So be it.”

  Jareen took up the offensive, performing a simple lunge, which Quinlan deflected with ease, before fully engaging him. Jareen’s sword was a blur as he attacked, his lead foot stomping against the ship’s wooden planks. Quinlan was a good swordsman, and it came as quite a surprise that a mere valet was so easily driving him back.

  Quinlan felt his back brush against the foremast and moved so as to put the stout timber between himself and his foe. He hoped that the barrier would hinder Jareen’s ability to counter his unexpected thrust. He stabbed past the mast, his sword aimed straight for the slave’s heart. Jareen leaned away, brought his off hand up, and struck the flat of Quinlan’s blade with all the force he could muster.

  Had Quinlan’s sword been as light as his rapier, Jareen likely would have succeeded in breaking the blade against the mast. The steel bent but held. The same could not be said for the inquisitor’s grip. The hilt tore from his hand, and his sword went flying into the shadows.

  Jareen sidled around the mast and drove Quinlan against a stack of crates with the point of his rapier. “Will you leave now, Inquisitor, or will I have to press my point?”

  Quinlan smiled as he looked at the blade pricking him over his heart. “I must admit, your swordsmanship is far better than mine, but you have forgotten one small detail.”

  “And that is?”

  “I am a sorcerer.”

  Quinlan flicked his hand and Jareen went flying across the deck to crash into the far bulkhead. Jareen cast about in search of his dropped sword despite knowing he would be unable to wield it even if he could find where it landed. Quinlan sauntered over and retrieved his weapon.

  He stood over Jareen, his sword held in a loose grip. “I would be fully within my rights to execute you for raising a weapon against a highborn.”

  Jareen held a hand against his bruised chest, trying to determine if any ribs were broken. “You invaded my master’s privacy. I am duty-bound to protect his property.”

  “It would be your word against mine, assuming I allowed you to live. I am still debating—”

  A dull thrumming sound and a ripple in the air was the only warning Quinlan got before an unseen force struck him in the side and hurled him across the room. He tumbled across the deck until he fetched up against a stack of the ship’s stores. The moment his body slid to a stop, Quinlan flung out a hand and returned the arcane assault with all the force he could muster in an instant.

  The invisible punch struck Auberon squarely, creating a rippling wave around his form as it impacted his ward. As hard as the blow was, its only effect was to force him back a step and increase his fury.

  “You dare strike your better?” Auberon shouted in outrage.

  Quinlan’s eyes went wide as he realized who had attacked him and against whom he had retaliated. “Sah Aub—!”

  Another arcane blow cut short the inquisitor’s attempt at an apologetic explanation. An unseen hand lifted Quinlan from the deck and hurled him against a bulkhead where he continued to hang like a painting. Lightning arced out from Auberon’s other hand and struck Quinlan in the chest.

  “You invade my privacy, pry into that which I ordered you to leave be, damage my servant, and then think to assault me, me, with your pathetic magic!” Auberon shrieked as he stormed toward the inquisitor, still pouring lightning into his trapped body.

  Jareen had never seen his master so furious and was certain that Quinlan was about to die. He had seen Auberon kill for far less.

  Quinlan’s eyes were clamped shut against the agony, but he forced them open. “Sah!” He cried out in pain and fought to remain coherent. “I did not know it was you, I swear! Something struck me and I retaliated without looking. It was instinct!”

  Auberon ceased his attack, and the inquisitor crumpled to the deck, his shaking hand upheld in a silent plea for mercy. “I was…” He gasped. “I was just acting in accordance with my duty. By empirical law, I am fully within my rights to investigate anything I deem to be a potential threat to the empire.”

  Auberon leaned down and glared into Quinlan’s frightened eyes. “And by maritime law, and my own pique, I am within my rights to hurl you over the rail of my ship.”

  “Sah, I know you are carrying your pyrotechnic powder to Vulcrad. Please, just tell me why and I will cease my inqu
iry.”

  “You will cease your inquiry because I command you to do so!”

  Quinlan shook his head. “No, sah, I will not. It is my duty, and you will have to kill me to keep me from performing it to the utmost of my ability.”

  Auberon towered over the inquisitor, his breaths long and deep like bellows fueling the fires of his anger as he considered which option to choose. “I am going to give Overlord Caelen a demonstration because I feel he may have a particular interest in what I have created.”

  “What sort of demonstration?”

  “I have told you what I am carrying and why. That is all you need know to satisfy your duty.”

  Quinlan recovered a bit of his bravado along with his breath. “Let us just hope no one wants to kill him as well and uses your demonstration as a distraction. Such a coincidence would be very damaging to your reputation.”

  “I strongly suggest you remain in your quarters for the duration of this voyage lest I change my mind regarding my choice in dealing with your effrontery. Leave…now.”

  Quinlan struggled to his feet, wincing at the pain even the slightest movement caused. He reached the stairs leading to the upper decks and looked back over his shoulder when Auberon went into a coughing fit. A glance from the powerful sorcerer drove him up the steps and out of his sight.

  Jareen struggled to his feet and hastened to his master’s side. “Sah, are you all right?”

  Auberon waved him away. “Fine, just this damn dust. Are you injured?”

  “Not severely.”

  Auberon nodded. “Good. You did well, but it was foolish of you to fight a sorcerer, even one as weak as the inquisitor.”

  “I suppose we are both men whose sense of duty crosses over into the realm of foolishness.”

  “While your steadfastness is admirable, his is mere arrogance. You should come to me to deal with the likes of him. You are a capable man, Jareen, but there is good reason why the highborn rule over your kind.”

  “Of course, sah. It is always at the forefront of my mind.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Amaia snuck past the Ulec guards standing watch before the grand archway leading into the acropolis by wreathing herself in shadow. Normally, they would not have stopped someone of her rank and position, but she had no way of knowing whether or not Pherick had ordered the guards to be on the lookout for her. It was best not to chance it, particularly considering the mass murder she was preparing to commit.

  She made her way through the dark labyrinthine halls until she reached the small room dedicated to the pursuit of alchemy. Inside, various alchemic apparatuses made of glass, and tubing covered the bulk of several tables. Amaia ignored the equipment and went straight to the shelving unit filled with assorted jars and boxes containing a plethora of liquids, powders, and body parts.

  Thanks to Pherick’s pedantic nature, it did not take her long to find what she was looking for as the contents were arranged in perfect alphabetical order. Her eyes went straight to the shelf labeled “blood” and found the phial she sought near the left-hand side. She slipped the vial of basilisk blood into her pocket, peered through the cracked doorway to ensure no one was in the hall, and hastened toward the council chambers.

  Despite the hour, the acropolis was never devoid of people. A veritable army of lower echelon initiates worked tirelessly to keep the floors polished and furnishings free of dust. Full members of the order often chose the late nights to perform their work or pursue their studies, particularly those who lacked the rank to procure the acropolis’ vast resources during peak hours.

  Amaia did her best to avoid everyone, but it was impossible to remain completely concealed without spending far more time skulking in alcoves than she desired. When unable to traverse a passageway unseen, she simply locked her eyes forward, held her head high, and wore a scowl on her face that made it clear she had more important work to do than exchange pleasantries, and anyone attempting to do so would receive a stern rebuke at the very least.

  She snuck down a side passage that ran behind the large council chamber where a small side door opened directly behind the seats, hidden from view by a heavy, black curtain. Amaia opened the door with slow and deliberate movements. She was not far from Pherick’s private suite of rooms, the knowledge of which filled her with both dread and anger. Fantasies of slipping into his chambers and slaughtering him in his sleep filled her head, but she dismissed them as too risky, nor would such an action result in the outcome she desired even in the unlikely event she was successful.

  Amaia’s fingertips slipped between the curtain ends to part them, but she drew them back and stifled a gasp when voices echoed up from inside the council chamber beyond. She risked opening a tiny crack in the fabric and peered through.

  Pherick’s deep voice reverberated through the room. “You look unwell. Am I to assume things did not go as planned?”

  Nerea cast her eyes to the floor. “I underestimated her strength. She was able to soul source four Ulec warriors at once and overpowered me. I had to flee or risk death.” She raised her gaze and cast a furious look at the harbinger, reading or imagining the accusatory look upon his face. “I am not a coward! I would have stayed and fought her but I did not want to risk revealing my identity and my connection to you.”

  “Calm yourself, child. Any feelings of failure you have come entirely from within. You were wise to retreat. You are certain she does not know it was you?”

  “She probably suspects, but there is no evidence linking the attack to either of us, not that anyone would do anything if they did.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. Such a drastic action taken upon someone who has an outstanding motion on the floor could have some political blowback, possibly enough to sway their vote against me if they were as yet undecided. It is of no consequence. I have taken measures to ensure the vote goes in my favor.”

  Nerea cocked her head to one side. “You are certain of victory?”

  Pherick shrugged. “As certain as I can be when relying upon the words of others. Betrayal is certainly not unheard of, but I have received assurances of support from a majority of the council. Even if they manage to remove me, I have secured your position to replace me and not Gaizar.”

  Nerea bowed her head. “Thank you for not losing faith in me, Harbinger.”

  “It pleases me to know that when I leave this decaying vessel behind, my legacy will continue. Come, you are exhausted. We should both get our rest and prepare for the upcoming session.”

  Amaia withdrew her hand and slipped silently along the wall farther from the door. She held her breath as Nerea and Pherick parted the curtain and stepped through. Nerea passed into the hall but Pherick stopped in the doorway and leaned his head as if listening. Amaia feared the sound of her beating heart had given her away and waited for the harbinger to turn on her.

  She considered launching a surprise assault, but she had expended most of the energy she had siphoned from soul sourcing the Ulec and was exhausted. After several agonizing seconds, Pherick stepped through the door and closed it behind him. Amaia let out her breath, forcing herself to release it in a long, silent exhalation that seemed to go on forever.

  After taking a minute to steady her nerves and ensure that Pherick did not suddenly decide to return, Amaia stepped out from behind the curtain, went to the table behind the council seats, and stole the box of onyx tokens. She peeked through the door before slipping out, hiding the voting chips beneath her robes, and hastening down the hall.

  Amaia stopped before a foreboding black door not far from the council chambers. Unlike most others within the acropolis, the portal was unadorned and banded in simple wrought iron. However disconcerting the door was, it was but a prelude to the abattoir lying beyond.

  The abattoir was where the Necrophages performed their darkest ritual magic, nearly all involving a blood sacrifice, often multiple ones. Such brutal magic was not required for Amaia’s spell, but she did need the bowl carved into the large plinth in the middl
e of the room.

  Standing upon the raised floor beneath the plinth, Amaia set the voting tokens to one side and poured the basilisk blood into the bowl. Taking the rune-inscribed ceremonial knife lying next to the bowl, she opened a cut in her hand and added her blood to the vessel, stirring the two together with the blade.

  Amaia dipped a fine brush into the gore, painted a sigil on each of the onyx chips, and innervated them with dark magic. The blood rune was barely visible against the black surface before it disappeared into the glossy stone.

  Each sigil had to be painted with great care and completed to perfection in order for it to retain the power she needed. It took her over an hour to inscribe all of the chips, and by the time she was finished, her hand spasmed with cramps. Her dark deed complete, Amaia returned the tokens to their place in the council chambers.

  With brisk and bold strides, she had nearly reached the doors leading out of the acropolis when she almost collided with someone approaching from a side passage. The two women’s eyes went wide when they looked up and recognized each other.

  “Amaia,” Nerea said, “what brings you to the acropolis at this hour?”

  Amaia forced her face to display a sense of calm and replied, “I came to pray to the black moon for strength and guidance before the council session. And you?”

  Nerea forced a smile. “The same. Shall we go together?”

  “Of course.”

  The two women walked side by side down the wide corridor to the cathedral doors set in the opposite wall. Inside, they knelt before an altar set below a large obsidian disc suspended from the ceiling, representing the black moon that appeared for one night each year when the twin moons aligned and were lost in a lunar eclipse.

  Nerea glanced over at Amaia kneeling next to her. “You look positively frightful. Are you all right?”

  Amaia looked down at her torn and dirtied robes. “I am fine. I ran into some trouble in the city earlier.”