“Do not be too angry with Lady Lyrelle, Tyvian,” Eddereon said, poking at the fire with a stick. “She did what was best for you—she did what was best for all of us.”
Tyvian had almost forgotten how aggravating it was having a conversation with this man—his “Initiator.” He steeled himself against unneeded profanity. “Tell me how to get this Kroth-spawned bastard off my bloody hand, you hairy pit-spawned barbarian.”
Eddereon smiled. “I’ve already told you—you must become Redeemed.”
Tyvian punched the wall, which made a rake fall from its place and nearly hit him in the head. “Kroth!” He ducked, wrestled with the thing, and then tossed it into a corner. “What does that mean? What the hell does ‘Redeemed’ mean—stop telling me riddles, you moron! Out with it!”
Eddereon raised his hands. “Please, please—calm yourself. I am not being unclear because I’m trying to mislead you. I was told by my Initiator that joining the ranks of the Redeemed was the only path to removing the ring. He did not say what that meant—I do not think he knew, and he died before he found out, Hann bless him. What I tell you is merely what I have been told and have reasoned out for myself.”
Tyvian frowned. “And you have no contact with other members of this . . . this Iron Order?”
Eddereon shrugged. “I’ve met a few over the years, adventured with a couple for a time, but never for long. None of them knew any more than I, even those who gained the ability to bestow the ring on others.”
“Why do it? Why shackle others to this fate? Surely the ring hasn’t addled your brain so much that you forget who you were before it tortured you into . . . into whatever you think you are now.”
Eddereon smiled. “Do you still think you would be better off without the ring in your life, Tyvian?”
“I do not think—I know with certainty.” Tyvian looked at the ring—his ring—in the firelight. It glittered darkly, a pool of shadow on his right hand. “This object is the stupidest way for someone to improve their character I can think of. It doesn’t make you better, it makes you a naive idiot.”
Eddereon considered this, sitting back in his chair so his shoulders almost touched the wall. “The Thembra of the Eastern Sea have a saying: ‘Only the innocent can save the world.’ I think on it often. I think that, perhaps, becoming more naive is the only way to make us better men.”
“You mean deader men. The world doesn’t need innocence and guileless platitudes, Eddereon—it needs wisdom and intelligence, neither of which the ring considers when it doles out its judgment. Everything has context—try and save the world, and you wind up dooming it in a hundred ways you never considered.”
Eddereon frowned. “Was that the case with Sahand? If you had not acted, he would have destroyed three cities worth of people and then invaded the rest. You saved millions of lives.”
“That was dumb luck.” Tyvian snorted. “Besides, I didn’t defeat Sahand at all—Myreon Alafarr did. The wages for her victory? She gets framed for a crime she didn’t commit and is a statue in some penitentiary garden somewhere, and all because my mother wants to play head games with me. Believe me, Eddereon—no good deed goes unpunished.”
Eddereon stared into the fire, as though trying to witness the moment of combustion itself. “You mustn’t believe that, Tyvian. We can’t believe that.”
Tyvian sighed—what was the point of this conversation anyway? The idiot knew nothing. It was almost pitiful. Still, he kept talking. “My mother implied that the ring was some kind of filter for our better selves—it collected our ‘goodness,’ so to speak, and we could later draw upon it. That was the gist of it, anyway.”
Eddereon nodded, his eyes still far away. “Much of what I know I have learned from your mother and, before that, from the Sorcerous League and Tarlyth. I sought them out to try and unlock the ring’s mysteries, but I only wound up with more questions.”
Tyvian looked at his fellow victim of the ring as if seeing him with fresh eyes. He noted that, without the beard, he could actually place Eddereon’s age—in his mid-forties, most likely. “How long have you had the ring?”
“A decade, perhaps a bit longer.” Eddereon shrugged, “When I was first bestowed with it, I did my best to forget my pains. I drank and whored for a long, long time, deadening my senses with booze and ink and tooka.”
“I’ve learned there’s a way to get it off, you know,” Tyvian said quietly. “Cleanly. Without undue side-effects, or so I was told.”
Eddereon stiffened. “If that were true, you would have done it.”
Tyvian shrugged. “I can’t find them. I scoured every book of history and mythology I could get my hands on, and I don’t even know where to start looking. An Artificer told me about them—they are called the Yldd. He claimed he had done me some disservice—they sound like unpleasant fellows, whoever or whatever they are.”
Eddereon shuddered. “You must put it out of your mind, Tyvian. The ring seems a burden at first—this I know—but it changes you for the better. I know I am a better man, but I needed to learn to cast off the man I once was. You must do this, too. You cannot live the same life you led before.”
“Not a chance.” Tyvian smirked. “That reminds me—do you have any lamp oil in here?”
Eddereon looked away from the fire. “I’ve got a whole jug—why?”
“I would be most appreciative if you would pour the whole jug all over me—focus on the doublet and shirt, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Why?”
Tyvian smiled, “I’m about to be arrested.”
The initial stages of Tyvian’s arrest had involved somewhere between ten and a dozen different mirror men kicking him in the stomach over and over again as he lay on the ground in the fetal position. Following that, everything was smooth and orderly. Within twelve hours he had been returned to the city via griffon-back, charged, processed, and installed in the dungeons beneath Keeper’s Court—an ancient castle at the center of the Old City in which the legal machinery of Saldor was now housed.
As dungeons went, this one was downright comfortable. There was a canvas cot in good working order, a small stool, a chamber pot, and fresh straw. There was even a little barred ventilation shaft that admitted the sunlight from above. Too small to squeeze through, but just large enough to admit a little bit of a breeze and the scent of street vendors selling fried fish. Tyvian lounged on the cot, hands behind his head, and smiled. So far, things were going smoothly.
The Defenders had thoroughly searched him, but of course had not found anything of interest other than the fact that he reeked of lamp oil. When they asked him about it, he just said he had spilled some on himself in his effort to escape. The ring had given him a bit of a squeeze for that, but the momentary pain had been worth it: everything was proceeding according to plan.
A Defender rapped on the door. “Hey! Someone here to see you!”
Tyvian brushed some garden turf off his clothes and sat up in time for the door to swing open. Xahlven was clad in the black robes of his office but had been compelled to leave his magestaff outside. His fingers, though, were bedecked with a half-dozen rings featuring amethysts, emeralds, and garnets—every one of them, no doubt, contained a potent enchantment. It was always important, Tyvian knew, to remember that no one who had achieved the rank of archmage could ever be anything other than extremely dangerous.
He smiled at his brother. “Xahlven! Pull up a stool!” He kicked the tiny, three-legged thing across the floor.
Xahlven rolled his eyes. “Gallows humor?”
Tyvian shrugged. “You never know—I might get off. They’re charging me with a murder I didn’t commit.”
Xahlven nodded. “And several murders you very likely did commit.”
“I deny them all,” Tyvian said, wincing as the ring clamped down on his hand. “I can
be very persuasive.”
Xahlven shook his head and pointed at Tyvian’s hand. “Not with that you can’t.” He sighed. “Would you like help with your defense? I can testify for you.”
Tyvian looked up at his older brother, all dashing with his dimpled chin and golden locks. Yes, he bet Xahlven could testify for him—probably even give him a fighting chance at acquittal. “No thank you. Very kind of you—most brotherly—but no.”
Xahlven scowled. “Tyvian, don’t let your idiotic pride get in the way of—”
“My pride? My pride?” Tyvian laughed. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? You’ve been waiting for this to happen for years—years! Now here it is, your moment of glory: step into your brother’s cell, make him an offer, watch him swell with gratitude. Big brother to the rescue and, by the way, ‘I told you so.’ ”
Xahlven’s sunny face darkened. “Unlike you, Tyvian, I have concerns and beliefs that deal with matters larger than myself. You have always taken exception to that—you have never understood.”
“Oh, I understand.” Tyvian shook his head. “I understand that you are so far under mother’s influence that you don’t even realize how she’s shaped you. You’re a mini-Lyrelle, do you know that?” He sighed. “You must know that—how could you not? That was why you condescended to me all those years. You were jealous.”
Xahlven laughed. “Jealous? Why?”
Tyvian stood up and got in his brother’s face. “Because, unlike you, I escaped her. I went off and lived my life on my own bloody terms, and you had your whole life planned out—the tutors, the schooling, the Arcanostrum, the Black College, even the bloody office of archmage! Tell, me, Xahlven—have you ever, even once, made a decision for yourself? Hmm?”
Xahlven didn’t even blink. “I am not here to dig up old feuds, Tyvian. I’m here to help you. I take it you know Andolon’s plot?”
Tyvian stepped back, trying to calm his pulse. “What—the market crash he thinks he can pull off? Yes, obviously. He tried to hire me. I assume you have a counterstroke.”
Xahlven nodded. “As a matter of fact, I do—you.”
Tyvian sat on the cot and leaned back against the wall. A little tingle wafted through his body—a tingle of triumph. “Ahhhh—so that’s it. You want me to offer the court Gethrey in exchange for leniency. Even if they don’t go for it, I will draw their attention toward him—he’s only lasted this long because nobody besides you and mother have noticed him.”
Xahlven nodded. “Just so. Well?”
“Why should I?”
“Because you don’t wish to be turned to stone and left in a garden to molder for the better part of two decades.”
Tyvian smiled at his brother, reveling in the fact that, for once, he knew something that Xahlven didn’t. “No thank you.”
“Tyvian, the entire Western economy could collapse! The damage it could do . . .”
Tyvian shrugged. “You forget, brother—I’m a smuggler. Financial chaos is good for me. Sounds fun.”
“You would bankrupt our family out of spite?” Xahlven shook his head.
Tyvian glared at him. “Spare me! Don’t pretend you and Mother haven’t moved to sidestep this little crash already—hell, you could warn the investors in the Secret Exchange yourself, if you wanted to, but you’d rather it be done like this, since if you said something it would become immediately obvious you were withholding information that could destroy the very banking system that keeps the magi and the sorcerous families on top of the world. And then,” Tyvian motioned to his cell, “and then you would get to experience this cell for yourself.”
Xahlven looked down at his brother, his hero’s face fixed in a half frown. “Very well, have it your way. Good luck today, Tyvian. I mean that.”
Xahlven called for the guard. In the second before the door opened, Tyvian yelled at his back, “Don’t count me out yet, big brother. I’m smarter than you realize.”
Xahlven left. He did not look back.
CHAPTER 18
THE TRIAL OF TYVIAN RELDAMAR
The courtroom had five sides, which, to Artus’s eyes, made it one of the stranger rooms he had ever been in. Well, maybe not stranger than that temple where he had almost been eaten by rotting vegetables, but still pretty weird.
Artus was seated between DiVarro on his right and Brana on his left. They were squeezed tight, too, since the benches that made up the gallery were packed to the walls. Word of Tyvian’s arrest had spread like a pox and the trial had rapidly become the social event of the season. Artus could scarcely see the floor of the court thanks to all the giant, feathery hats; the air had been rendered an olfactory battlefield as scores of complex and expensive perfumes—many of them sorcerous—warred for the attention of Artus’s nostrils.
Until this moment, Artus and Brana’s new duties in their “job” had involved sitting around the Argent Wind and indulging themselves. They hadn’t seen much of Andolon—after Tyvian left, he got some kind of news that had him frantic and he was off to shore like a shot, DiVarro in tow. While he was gone, Artus and Brana had the run of the ship and exploited it, exploring every bolt-hole and crevice until Brana’s insatiable boat-related curiosity had been sated. Then the word of the arrest came and with it a noticeably happier Andolon. They had come to Keeper’s Court straight away.
Andolon was sitting behind Artus, grinning and occasionally rubbing Artus’s shoulders. He smelled like wine and lavender and his hands were weirdly soft against Artus’s hard muscles. “DiVarro,” he whispered, “the numbers.”
The sour-faced Verisi rattled off a series of figures. “It could be worse. Fear and Hope are only down by ten percent at the moment, but there should be a rally after the trial. With Reldamar safely out of the way, there is no reason to expect much more volatility before the pear shipment comes in.”
Artus took a deep breath. “Doesn’t doing this bother you at all? Tyvian is your friend.”
Andolon rolled his eyes. “Tyvian was my friend—he was my friend fifteen years ago. Circumstances change, my dear. If it makes you feel any better, I’m not especially enjoying this. Then again, it isn’t like I forced Tyvian to run off and become an international criminal mastermind.”
Artus snorted—he couldn’t help himself. “No, you just became a local one.”
Andolon gently tugged on one of Artus’s earlobes, which made Artus flinch. “Now now, Artus—no second thoughts, understand? I’m relying on you. We are all relying on you.”
Artus shrugged him off. Andolon’s soft, perfumed hands made his skin crawl. “I won’t lie for you.”
Andolon mimicked a laugh. “That’s the beauty of it, Artus, my sweet—your sworn testimony will be nothing but the unadulterated truth. When they call your name, just tell the truth, and let justice take its course.”
Artus’s stomach rumbled at that—indigestion. He reached into his pockets—maybe he had stashed a roll somewhere. Instead, his fingers brushed against an envelope. He knew exactly who had put it there, too. He froze.
“Something wrong?” Andolon whispered. “Come, come—this is the only way, Artus. You wanted to be free, and I’m giving you the chance, right? You testify against our old friend, and I make you and your brother filthy rich. A fair deal, isn’t it?”
Artus shrugged. “I guess.”
DiVarro raised a single finger, cocking his head to one side. “Sir, a word if I may. Movement on the exchange . . .”
Andolon took his attention from Artus and dove into a secret conference with DiVarro, their whispers masked both by the ambient roar of the assembly and some kind of little abjuration the augur threw up to foil eavesdropping even from Artus’s distance. Artus took the opportunity to look over at Brana.
The gnoll was wearing his shroud, but any physical indication of his humanity was counteracted by the way he was
cocking his head and darting his eyes back and forth across the assembly. He looked nervous—the gnoll still didn’t do well in crowds. “You okay?” Artus whispered.
“Tyvian here?” he asked.
Artus nodded. “Yeah. Yeah he’s here.”
Brana wiggled his backside in his seat. “We save him?”
Artus felt his stomach clench—was this how Tyvian felt every time the ring gave him a jolt? He tried to think of something to say to Brana, but no words came. How could he explain to the gnoll pup that he was being asked to testify against Tyvian? Even assuming he could get him to understand the concept, Brana would never understand why.
Still, Artus meant to do it. Tyvian had hung him out to dry plenty of times—plenty of times. He was only returning the favor. Even Tyvian would understand that.
Reaching into his pocket again, he brought out the envelope. Holding it in his lap, he opened it and hoped Andolon and DiVarro were too distracted to notice. Inside were two items: a sparkstone—the little kind you used to light pipes and cigars and such—and a small notecard. The note was written in the flowing, immaculate handwriting of Tyvian himself. It read: You’ll know when.
Artus scowled. The jerk was in irons and he was still ordering him around like he was some kind of trained animal. He grunted and stuffed the note and the sparkstone back in his pocket.
A bell sounded, and the heavy doors at the front of the courtroom opened. Five Defenders, firepikes at their shoulders, took positions around the fat black stone everybody was calling “the Block.” Two more then entered, leading Tyvian Reldamar himself, still dressed all in black, his hands and ankles shackled together. Even thus confined, he struck an impressive figure—his dark clothes and fiery hair made him look every inch the brilliant villain he was reported to be, especially when surrounded by the white and mirrored silver of his captors. Artus had no doubt that the visual effect was entirely intentional.
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