Raeth smiled in anticipation, throwing off his heavy robe. He accepted the clothing from Darro eagerly, moving to pull on the thick white trousers.
“You know,” Darro said, leaning back against a bookcase—one filled with books that, of course, Darro had never touched. “I don’t see why you can’t have your own rooms here in the palace. I know you spend most of your time in the Irae, but Hern practically lives on the northern border, and he still has rooms here.”
Raeth shrugged, pulling on the stiff black overshirt and doing the golden clasps up its sides. “I don’t know,” he said. “That’s just the way it is. I barely even get to leave for Saedin—I’ll bet the Patriarch would keep me from coming if he could come up with a good excuse.”
“You’re the Emperor’s son,” Darro said with a snort.
“Not anymore,” Raeth said. “Or, at least, not except for the Festival of the Unremembered. For the rest of the year, I’m just a simple Dari.” He paused, holding up a bright red cloak that matched Darro’s. “Today, however, I’m Raeth Vaetayn, imperial son.” He smiled, feeling the cloak’s cloth between his fingers. It attached to the back of the overshirt, which had clasps that extended it a short distance over each shoulder, making it hang wide and straight. Raeth had only been able to wear one a couple of times—they were awarded on the Placeday, when a boy became a man, and Dari didn’t wear cloaks.
“Hey, Raeth,” Darro said as Raeth began to attach the cloak clasps, the most important one, over the right shoulder, proclaiming his Line.
Raeth looked up questioningly.
Darro smiled widely, holding up his right hand, the Amberite in his palm sparkling in the light. “Feel like a bout—for old time’s sake?”
Raeth matched his smile, then held up his own hand and made a fist. Immediately, he felt a surge of power from his Aether—and a surge of excitement. Bright rose crystals grew from his Aether, encasing his fist in a gem-like sphere of Amberite. The crystals grew quickly, lengthening from his fist, crawling and growing outwards in a thin spike. He held his hand forward as the crystals grew upon one another, forming outward into a blade several feet long. The weapon looked like rosy glass or a multi-faceted piece of quartz, but it was far stronger than either.
Darro’s smiled broadened, and he held his own hands forward, a massive, two-handed blade sprouting from his palm, the crystals creeping upward, growing like a living thing—and, in reality, no one was certain that they weren’t. The Aethers seemed to have emotions.
Darro obviously held himself back. He grew the large sword, but nothing more. He could have continued on to armor; he was far stronger than Raeth. Of course, even regular Aedin were stronger than Raeth. That was the big problem, the reason for his lost birthright. High Aedin were supposed to be powerful, heirs even more so. Even as Raeth’s Amberite sword finished growing, he felt his Aether growing weak, unable to produce any more Amberite, or push it any further from itself. Raeth wasn’t an embarrassment—not really. He just wasn’t worthy of leading the Line.
Raeth fell into a dueling stance. Not worthy to lead the Line. Barely even worthy to be a son. For the first time in years, Raeth let his frustration boil free, and he channeled it all into an attack.
Raeth leapt forward, swinging for Darro’s head. The weapon was light in his hand—though Amberite weighed as much as stone, there was a power to the Aethers, such as the power that let Corpates give off light. Though the Amberite would seem heavy to others, to Raeth it was light, almost weightless.
Raeth had intentionally grown his sword dull, and Darro would have done likewise, to prevent serious injury. Even still, Darro flinched slightly as he brought up his larger weapon to parry the blow. Chips flew free from both weapons, but the Amberite quickly regrew, the notches covering over before the next swing. It came from Raeth, who pushed himself off Darro’s parry into a wild offence. Darro was strong, but Raeth was quick, and his attack was fueled by years of being forced into a Place he could barely tolerate.
Darro fell back, obviously realizing that his larger weapon had been a mistake—there wasn’t room to swing it with so much furniture. He turned aside another of Raeth’s attacks, fell back slightly, then delivered a massive overhand blow. Raeth ducked to the side, and Darro’s Amberite weapon smashed through a chair, slicing it completely in two.
Raeth spun, kicking at Darro’s hand—the one that wasn’t encased in Amberite—causing his brother to yelp in pain. Raeth spun around Darro’s awkwardly large weapon, and a second later, Raeth’s weapon was at Darro’s throat.
“Twins!” Darro cursed, dropping his sword. The Amberite cracked, falling free from Darro’s hand and shattering as it hit the floor. A second later, Darro had a smaller sword—like Raeth’s—in his hand, and he dove forward into an offense.
Raeth backed up, eyeing his brother. Darro had increased in skill greatly over the last few years—fighting in a war tended to have that effect. He was also stronger than Raeth was. The odds favored Darro, especially now that he had abandoned the oversized weapon.
Raeth backed up, carefully bunching up the rug beneath him as he moved. Darro’s eyes remained focused on Raeth—and so he was surprised when Raeth stepped off the carpet, then snapped it tight with his foot. The move didn’t do much to jostle Darro, but it did cause a muffled crack from below—a sound that distracted the larger man.
Raeth jumped forward, throwing his weight against the surprised Darro. Even though Darro was far heavier than Raeth, he was distracted and off-balance. Raeth’s tackle easily toppled him backward. Raeth dropped his weapon as he fell forward, freeing the Amberite. As the two brothers hit the ground—Darro’s breath whuffing free with a grunt of pain—Raeth brought his hand up, a second, smaller weapon already sprouting from the fist. A drip of sweat fell free from his brow, snapping against Darro’s forehead as Raeth pressed an Amberite knife against his brother’s neck.
“Blistering Slaughter and Despair!” Darro swore with a growl. “Five years rotting in an alcove, and you can still beat me two out of three!”
Raeth took a breath, smiling slightly as he climbed to his feet, then offered a hand to Darro. He didn’t mention his daily exercises, performed when he was supposed to be contemplating one work of art or another. Nor did he mention the fighting stances, practiced with an Amberite weapon, performed each night before going to bed—stances he had learned long ago, when trying to impress his father into not making him Dari. He didn’t feel guilty for continuing his training—after all, Dari were supposed to spend their time in meditation, and Raeth knew nothing more meditative than the dueling stances.
“I got lucky, Darro,” he said, helping the larger man to his feet. “You’re better than you used to be—a lot better. In an even duel—one that didn’t involve tripping—you’d beat me easily.”
Darro shook his head. “No, Raeth. You’re good. Four years on the border has taught me that much. You’re Twins-cursed good. You’re wasted in that Irae.”
“Darro… .” Raeth said warningly.
“No,” Darro said, shaking his head. “Not this time, Raeth. I will not hush myself—it needs to be said. You should be Heir, not Hern. You deserve more than this.”
“You want to know why he’s not Heir?” a quiet voice asked.
Raeth spun, feeling a stab of surprise in his chest. He saw himself standing in the doorway of Darro’s rooms. A straight, firm face with blonde Aedin hair, an average build, a blood-red cloak. The eyes were different, however. Harsher. Angrier.
“I’ll show you why,” Hern whispered, holding his hands out. Amberite exploded from his fist, a sword sprouting with a crackle of growing crystals. The Amberite didn’t stop at his wrist, however, but continued growing, creeping up his arms like ice freezing over a pond. The Amberite sparkled with its rose color, crawling over Hern’s face and down his chest, encasing his entire body in an armor-like suit of crystal, the joints interlocking perfectly, a small gap open for the mouth and nose, but otherwise one sheer piece of crystal.
>
“Defend yourself,” Hern whispered, jumping forward.
Raeth cursed, summoning a sword for himself. His Aether groaned in exhaustion, and the weapon grew slowly. It wasn’t ready in time to block Hern’s first attack, and Raeth was forced to duck to the side, his cloak flapping as he rolled across the rug. Hern followed quickly behind, snapping his weapon at Raeth’s face. With alarm, Raeth realized the weapon wasn’t dulled.
Raeth cried out, rolling to the side as Hern’s weapon cracked against the floor, easily cutting the rug and biting into the wood. Raeth came up just in time to parry a third strike, then delivered a blow of his own. Hern just chuckled, ignoring the strike as it snapped against the side of his head. The blow did nothing more than throw off a few chips of Amberite.
Hern kicked Raeth in the stomach, throwing him back against the stone wall. Raeth cried out in pain, groaning slightly.
Hern stepped forward, his eyes visible behind a translucent Amberite faceplate. His steps thunked against the floor.
He’s so powerful, Raeth thought with despair as Hern strolled forward, a crackling film of Amberite forming on the floor around his feet with each step. There was joy in those eyes. Hern had always flaunted his power before those around him—nothing pleased him more than proving his strength.
Raeth dropped his weapon. Released from his grasp, it immediately became brittle, and shattered when it hit the floor. Raeth formed a fist, coaxing his tired Aether into producing just a little bit more Amberite. A thin, stiletto-like blade. One that would slide easily through an Amberite suit’s mouth-hole.
You want to fight for real, Hern? Raeth thought with anger. Fine.
Hern stepped forward, smiling. Raeth knew what he wanted—he wanted a plea of mercy. An admittance that Hern was the stronger, something Raeth had been forced into dozens of times during his childhood.
Not this time, Hern, Raeth thought with anger.
Hern raised his blade to attack. Raeth tightened his grip on his small weapon, keeping it hidden behind the back of his leg.
Suddenly, a massive Amberite axe, its blade fully four-feet long, slammed into the ground in front of Hern. The force of the blow caused the entire room to shake, toppling lanterns and cups from tables. Hern and Raeth turned with surprise.
Darro raised massive Amberite fists, more like blocks of stone than armor. The youngest brother stood completely encased in an enormous suit of Amberite, his body barely a shadow in the very center of the suit. He stood fully ten feet tall, the block-like head of his suit brushing the ceiling, his suit’s arms and legs extending several feet beyond where his own ended. Darro’s suit made Hern’s armor look tiny by comparison.
Darro pulled a gargantuan fist backward—the Amberite hand so large it looked like it had been hewn from a boulder—and then slammed it into Hern’s chest. The weight of the Amberite hurled Hern across the room, and he smashed against the stone wall, chips of both Amberite and stone spraying through the air. The Heir dropped dazedly to the ground, his armor covered with cracks. Another blow like that could kill him.
Hern looked up, danger in his eyes. His armor grew back in a flash, throwing chunks of cracked Amberite from his body as it grew. He growled slightly, his Aether flaring, Amberite sprouting from his feet and growing along the floor like a tide of red crystals, covering chairs, and tables. Raeth backed away—if it hit him, it would encase him within a shell he would be too weak to shatter.
Hern yelled, dashing forward, a pair of Amberite swords extending from his fists. Darro set himself, the hands of his armor coming together as a massive hammer began to grow from their palms.
“Stop!” Raeth snapped in the quiet room.
Both heads turned toward him, and Hern skidded to a stop.
“You’re stronger than I am, Hern,” Raeth said quietly. “It doesn’t matter whether I might have made a good Heir or not. I am Dari, you are Shaeth. You will rule the Line when father dies. Isn’t that enough?”
Hern paused, then a smile crept to his lips as he looked into Raeth’s eyes, the eyes of his twin. He relaxed, his armor cracking and falling from his body as he released it. His cloak flapped free, released from its crystalline prison, and Hern dusted himself off.
“You should send for the palace maids, Darro,” Hern noted, looking over the room. “Though I doubt they’ll be happy to see this mess.” Furniture lay broken, cups and books lay scattered on the floor, and everything was covered by a film of red dust—the final state of Amberite that was released from an Aedin’s control.
Hern smiled to himself and strode from the room. Darro turned to watch him go, a single step from his massive suit of Armor causing the floor to shake ominously.
“I hate him,” Darro whispered quietly, his voice hollow as it resounded from his armor’s mouth-hole—placed in the chest of the suit.
Raeth shook his head. “Don’t say that, brother. He’s just Hern. We’ve lived with him all our lives. He’s arrogant and infuriating, but he’s still our brother.”
“I used to be able to go to the north to escape him,” Darro continued. “But now he comes there too, strutting around and trying to run the army like he does everything else.”
Raeth sighed, shaking his head. At times he tried to think of benefits he’d gained by being made Dari. Getting away from Hern was definitely at the top of the list. “Come on, Darro. We should probably be going. It’s almost noon, and they’ll be starting the Sending soon.”
Darro sighed audibly. Then his armor began to crack. It shattered with a sharp sound, the floor shaking as large chunks fell free. Darro stepped from the wreckage, which was already cracking and dissolving into dust around his feet. He kicked at the head of his armor, sending up a spray of red crystalline powder. Then he looked up with a slight smile.
“He’s right about the maids, though,” Darro noted. “They’ll throw a fit when they see this. It’ll be worse than when I brought a half-tavern’s worth of people home last year to sample the Imperial wine.”
Raeth smiled, though the expression was a bit forced. Hern could ruin even a perfect day.
#
The palace had its own Sending platform, of course. Raeth and Darro stepped off the Corpate climber and into the circular room. Several Vo-Dari were already there, Sending various palace officials and bureaucrats, who waited in a line for their turn.
“It’s odd,” Raeth noted quietly as the Corpate climber began to clink behind them, crawling back down its shaft to do the bidding of those important enough to not use stairs.
“What?” Darro asked as the two walked past the line and stepped up onto the platform.
“I live in the Irae,” Raeth explained, “with the Vo-Dari, but the only time I use a Sending is when I’m acting as a regular High Aedin.”
Darro raised an eyebrow, standing beside Raeth as they waited for a white robed Vo-Dari finished Sending an elderly Shorriken scribe. After a brief moment of mumbling a prayer to the Ancestors, the Vo-Dari reached out and tapped the bureaucrat on the forehead.
The Shorriken man lurched backward, his body ripping apart as it dissolved in a burst of light. He was gone an eyeblink later. A thin, ghostly line of light hovered in the air, indicating the direction the man had been Sent. The amorphous trail wavered slowly, disappearing.
“After you,” Darro said, nodding toward the Vo-Dari, who had taken a step to the side, repositioning himself for the next Sending.
Raeth nodded, stepping up to the still-mumbling man. Raeth recognized him only vaguely. The Vo-Dari spent little time in the Irae—their services were too valuable, and left them little time for painting or other normal Dari activities.
“See you in Saeris Va,” Raeth said as the Vo-Dari reached out to tap him on the forehead.
Immediately, Raeth felt an incredible force pulling on his chest. He stumbled forward as if falling—not down, but to the side, toward the stone wall. Then he began to accelerate suddenly, his speed increasing at an alarming pace. Raeth felt like screaming out in fear
, but he was accustomed to the feeling.
He passed through the wall and kept going, his body no longer physical. He shot northward, continually accelerating. Raeth saw flashes of the city pass below, then it was gone. Soon the speed was too great for him to see anything but a blur. He gritted teeth that were no longer there, his soul shaking as everything around him became a disorienting tunnel of light.
Raeth lurched to a stop. He stumbled, his stomach churning. Though he wasn’t in motion, his mind felt that he should be, and he careened as he tried to adjust to the sudden lack of motion. He barely managed to stay on his feet as several aids rushed up to him, steadying his body and offering him something to sooth his stomach.
It had been a while—he’d almost forgotten how difficult the Sending could be. It was supposed to be worst for Amberite Bonds, like himself. Raeth took a deep breath, grappling control of his rebellious stomach, then waved the Sending attendants away. A second later, a faint line of light appeared beside him and Darro stumbled forward.
“Twins!” Darro cursed, shaking his head and steadying himself. “You’d think I’d get used to that.”
“I never have,” Raeth said as his body continued to adjust. The world eventually stopped spinning. The two were standing atop a stone Sending platform set amongst the much older ruins of a fallen city. Saeris Va. The City of the Ancestors.
“So, when are they going to teach you how to do that?” Darro asked, accepting a cup from a Sending attendant and downing it in one gulp as he stepped from the platform.
Raeth shook his head, pulling his cloak tight as he followed Darro. They had traveled hundreds of miles to the north, to the place where the Aedin people had once lived, many years before. Snow was on the ground, Though it had been cleared from the walkways, and a line of white mountains lay a short distance to the south.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do that, Darro,” he said. “The Sending isn’t learned, it’s granted—a gift to the Vo-Dari from the Ancestors.”
The Aether of Night Page 4