“You’re certain, ser? You don’t want to have the Lancers go in first?”
“That wouldn’t be wise,” replies Lerial. “First, there’s a chaos-mage somewhere. If he’s hostile and attacks, without me there, that’s sentencing the lead rankers to certain death. I’d prefer not to lose any more Lancers in Afrit than we already have. Second, it’s not polite to honor an invitation with a Lancer squad preceding the invitee.”
Strauxyn nods reluctantly. After a moment, so does Norstaan, if with a slightly puzzled expression.
“First Squad, then, sir?” asks Strauxyn.
Lerial nods.
“First Squad! First ten men! Dismount!”
Lerial waits until the rankers are in position with their sabres out before he dismounts. He does not draw his own sabre, that cupridium-plated, iron-cored weapon that has served him so well for so many years, but his hand rests on its hilt. Then, he walks toward the door, abruptly halting and stepping back as he senses the faintest hint of chaos somewhere ahead to his left.
After a moment, Lerial takes another step, then opens the door, stepping inside past another short line of columns, with Norstaan immediately behind him, and the Lancers behind Norstaan. Lerial holds his shields wide enough to protect them. No one approaches as he leads the way past the columns into the hexagonal entry hall, but he gains a feeling that the chaos-mage is close … perhaps even at the other side of the hall, a space a good fifteen yards across, floored with alternating tiles of shimmering white and lustrous golden brown. Lerial advances just far enough into the hall that Norstaan and the ten Lancers are fully clear of the columns and directly behind him before he halts and sends out the slimmest probe of pure order.
A flash of light flares, and when it fades, Jhosef stands on the other side of the entry hall. Beside him stands Mykel. “You see? Mykel is quite alive.” He turns his head toward the heir. “Aren’t you, Mykel?”
“Of course, I’m alive. Why would I not be?”
With Mykel’s words, words that are somehow slightly stilted and flat, comes a sense of peace, of cool reassurance … and the thought that we’re all reasonable men … we can work this out … we all have the same goal in mind.
Lerial almost finds himself agreeing, but catches himself. The same kind of attack as before. “Where is Oestyn?” he asks quickly, the first words that come to his mouth, as he uses his order-senses to try to locate the chaos mage. He can also sense that the Lancers behind him have been slowed somehow.
“Oestyn is fine,” replies Mykel, his voice still just slightly flat.
Lerial can see that Mykel is not even looking at him, although the heir is facing him directly.
“Come here, Oestyn.” Jhosef motions, and Oestyn walks out of the side hall stiffly, almost as though he does not wish to step forward.
Like a marionette. Manipulated somehow by the chaos-mage? As his eyes flick from Jhosef to Mykel and then to Oestyn, Lerial realizes that there is little emotion shown on the faces of the two younger men. Lerial extends a quick order probe, but Mykel and Oestyn are alive, if surrounded by a reddish silver order-chaos web … and something else within them, especially within Oestyn. Something like that mage tried on me, as well as some sort of drug or potion … it has to be.
Lerial finally says, “Now that I’m here, what exactly did you want to discuss?”
“I told you,” replies Jhosef. “The future of Afrit. Who will be heir after Rhamuel’s short time of ruling.”
“It won’t be short, and he can still have children.”
“He’s crippled. No one will believe that he can sire heirs. You know that. So does all of Afrit, and all of Hamor,” Jhosef responds. “Mykel is the only one of the blood whom the merchanters will accept. If anything happens to Mykel, it will be your fault, and all Afrit will turn on you. They’ll turn on Cigoerne as well. They’ll raze everything in that poor excuse for a capital to the ground, and it all will be your fault. You don’t want that on your head, especially not as a younger son.”
Lerial cannot believe what he is hearing. How can he believe that? How can he possibly think that? We’ve beaten back Merowey and destroyed Khesyn’s ability to invade anywhere for a while … if not years. “They’ll turn on you. You’re the one who kidnapped Mykel. Not me. Not the arms-commander. All I’m asking is for you to release Mykel, and let us take him back to Swartheld and his family.”
“What family? A crippled brother, a useless niece, and the worthless sisters who consorted for golds and power?”
Keep him talking … until you can find a way to free Mykel … “They’re still his family, Jhosef.”
“They’re all worthless. Just like Mykel, a half-grown half-man.” Jhosef snorts theatrically. “Except he can learn, unlike the others.”
Learn? Lerial wouldn’t call it that. “Just because a man isn’t suited to bear arms doesn’t make him less.” What else can you say?
“Just leave,” replies Jhosef. “I’ll keep Mykel safe until you come around. I’m not in the mood for debating.”
“Perhaps we should leave,” suggests Norstaan, his voice also just slightly flat. “It might be best.”
Leave … and then what? After all this madness? All this death? Lerial isn’t sure that saying anything will work, but withdrawing…?
It would be for the best … The cool but reassuring words creep into Lerial’s skull.
Lerial knows he has to act, and quickly, or he will stand totally alone in the hall, if indeed he does not already, and he is already having trouble fighting the insidious suggestions from the chaos-mage. He forces the thinnest order-pulse from the immobile Oestyn away from the columns behind Jhosef, Mykel, and Oestyn and toward the far left side of the entry hall, toward … something. The probe is stopped by a shield of some sort.
Order and chaos meet, and another flash of light occurs. When it subsides, Lerial sees a slender blond man, attired in brilliant white, except for the scarlet sash and the black leather of his boots. The chaos-mage stands to Lerial’s left, almost as far from Lerial as from Jhosef.
“You have not met Maastrik, I believe,” declares Jhosef.
“Only in my thoughts,” replies Lerial, studying the mage and sensing the strength of the blond wizard’s shields, strong enough that Lerial does not have the ability to penetrate them without using order-chaos separation. And any order-chaos separation strong enough to crush him would pulverize most of the villa and everyone around you.
The white-clad mage smiles faintly, and inclines his head, as if signifying that he knows what Lerial has just determined.
“Your lack of understanding represents the greatest threat ever posed to Afrit,” Jhosef says, breaking the momentary silence. “Anyone who sees the wider picture would conclude the same.”
You … as the greatest threat? Abruptly, he understands. “To Afrit, or to the most powerful merchanters who in turn control the chaos-mages who influence all that happens in Afrit?”
“Does it matter? Gold controls everything, and we control the gold.”
“No,” replies Lerial, realizing that, in one sense, it does not matter, although his realization, he suspects, is based on a somewhat different line of reasoning.
“You cannot destroy Maastrik, he has told me, without destroying all those around you. You cannot afford to do that … no matter how much you wish to destroy Maastrik … or me. You do not wish to destroy Lord Mykel. Nor do I wish that, either. Therefore, the best thing for both of us, and especially those you wish to protect, is for you and your men to depart.” Jhosef smiles warmly.
Lerial blocks the overwhelming feeling of warmth and friendliness that surrounds him and smiles in return … coldly. “I think you have overlooked something. What if I don’t wish to depart?”
“Then we will remain here until Maastrik wears you down, and he will, and then you will depart, in one fashion or another. Or, possibly, you will attempt a foolish attack, and you and your men will watch Mykel perish, and I will rally the merchanters aga
inst Cigoerne and to restore Afrit to its former glory.”
He’s truly mad. With what he now understands, Lerial cannot allow either alternative. He also knows that he cannot hold out forever against the insistent voices projected by the chaos-mage. Even if he can, he cannot let Jhosef and such a deadly chaos-mage escape, and the longer the standoff continues the weaker his position becomes.
What can you do?
“Well?” asks Jhosef.
Lerial can think of only one thing. He can only hope that it will work. He immediately creates three almost minute order-chaos separations in the stone under the white mage’s right boot, knowing that the mage’s shields will block the direct impact. He also knows that no one can do much of anything but fling out their hands when they feel themselves falling.
The explosion muffled by the mage’s shields staggers him, and the white-clad man flails, while pulverized rock and dust flare up around him.
Lerial contracts his shields almost to his body, sprints forward, and attacks through the swirling dust, not with either order or chaos, but with the ancient iron-cored, cupridium-plated blade. While he runs into what feels like a wall, the ancient blade continues onward, slicing into the mage’s shoulder.
The unvoiced scream dies, and ugly reddish silver mud-black splotches—not even close to the usual black-silver death mists—spray out from the near-instant ashes that are all that remain of the wizard. Even the shimmering white cloth turns gray and then ashen, before joining the pile of ash so fine that it will sift with any movement anywhere close.
“Kill them all!” screams Jhosef.
For a moment, Lerial does not understand to whom Jhosef is talking, not until a chaos-bolt slams against his shields. He turns toward Jhosef, only to see Mykel half-wreathed in flame from a second chaos-bolt, far weaker than the first. Lerial’s eyes turn to the other side of the entry hall, where another mage in white stands, a dark-haired man most likely younger than Lerial.
Lerial immediately attempts an order-pulse against the younger mage’s shields, if only to distract him. That pulse, likely aided by some chaos depletion, does just that, and the mage flings another chaos-bolt at Lerial, one that he returns to the attacker with enough force that the younger mage staggers, his shields disintegrating, then turns and runs, heading toward the corridor behind the columns.
Unwilling to let the mage escape, although he is more properly a white wizard, and unable to project significant chaos that distance, Lerial separates the smallest possible section of the fleeing man’s belt into order and chaos, because that is all he can do at that moment. A chunk of the man’s back explodes. The white wizard pitches forward onto the polished white and brown tiles, his body slowly turning to ash as the chaos consumes it.
Lerial immediately turns to face Jhosef, only to see Oestyn and his father in an embrace—except it is more deadly. Jhosef’s arms flail as Oestyn steps back and wrenches the knife from his father’s body.
“You … you…” Jhosef cannot seem to speak more as his hands clutch at his abdomen. Lerial can only see blood everywhere across Jhosef’s chest and abdomen, and it is clear enough that Oestyn has struck more than once. Abruptly, Jhosef sags, and then collapses like a marionette whose strings have been cut.
Oestyn turns, the bloody knife in his hand. “I tried so hard … I did…” Tears are streaming down his face. “It was never … never enough. Never…” He looks down at Mykel’s half-charred form, then lifts the knife again. “I’m … sorry, Mykel … sorry … so sorry.” Then the knife clatters on the floor tiles.
Lerial is frozen for a moment before he lunges toward Oestyn, but by the time he crosses the almost ten yards that separate them, even his efforts to use order to stanch the blood from Oestyn’s neck are too little and too late … and the quick shower of black and silver tells Lerial that Oestyn is dead. Lerial sees that, as Oestyn collapsed, he had reached out and clutched Mykel’s hand with both of his.
Lerial slowly straightens, ignoring the blood on his hands … and in those places from where you can never wash it away,
Belatedly, his shields in place, Lerial immediately searches for yet another concentration of chaos. If there were two, could there be another? He can find no sign of another chaos-mage, and he glances toward Norstaan, who looks stunned, if not more than stunned.
The undercaptain shakes his head and asks, “What happened?”
“Didn’t you see?”
“You were talking to someone … and then there was something like a small chaos-bolt, and you got to him with your blade, and he turned to ashes. But then someone hit Mykel with chaos … I saw everything after that—Oestyn, Jhosef … and the heir.” Norstaan shivers.
The fact that the dead and vanished wizard had managed to cloud the minds of Norstaan and likely the rankers from First Squad is another chilling reminder to Lerial of just how complex the situation in Afrit was … and likely still is. “There were two chaos-mages. I never sensed the second one because the first was so strong he overshadowed the other. The second one was likely his assistant.”
“Jhosef … he wanted to use Mykel … didn’t he?”
“Like a puppet, a marionette,” Lerial confirmed.
“Who would ever have thought … a produce merchanter … a frigging produce merchanter…”
Strauxyn and several Afritan Guards hurry into the vast entry hall, where the fine particles of dust and ash are slowly settling.
“Ser?” asks the undercaptain, his eyes widening as he takes in the three bodies sprawled on the white and brown tiles and the few metal items and coins scattered amid the ashes that are all that remains of the two chaos-mages.
“Jhosef’s chaos-mage attacked. I stopped him, and when I did, his control over Oestyn and Mykel vanished. The moment Jhosef thought we’d be able to rescue Mykel, he ordered the other chaos-mage to kill everyone. We didn’t know there was a second mage. He started with Mykel, then me. I stopped him, too, but while I was doing that, Oestyn must have grabbed his father’s belt knife, and he stabbed his father so quickly and so deeply that no healer could have saved him, even if I’d wanted to. Then Oestyn slit his own throat.” Lerial knows that the first part of his explanation is not true. But what else could you have done? Or said? Besides, in a way the chaos-mage had attacked, with his insidiously and false projections.
“Oestyn slit his own throat?”
“He did,” Norstaan confirms. “He said he tried, that he was so sorry, and then he just … slashed his own neck. Overcaptain Lerial tried to stop the blood, but he couldn’t.”
After a long silence, Strauxyn clears his throat, once, and again, before he finally speaks. “Now what, ser?”
“We’ll stay here this evening,” replies Lerial. “I intend to make a thorough search and inventory of the entire estate. We also need to do what we can to prepare the heir’s body for return to Swartheld.” As well as deal with a few other matters. More than a few, Lerial fears.
LII
Two glasses later, Lerial surveys Jhosef’s personal study, with a pair of lancers standing guard in the doorway behind him. A windowed door that overlooks the lake to the east is flanked on each side by two wide windows, beyond which is a roofed terrace graced by a circular table and chairs. The table is covered with a brown-bordered linen cloth, tied down as indicated by the fact that the cloth does not move or flutter in the light breeze. The study floor is composed of the same glistening white and brown tiles that appear everywhere throughout the villa, although most of the study tiles are covered by a rich light brown carpet that has a border design of intertwined golden chains. The draperies, tied back with golden ropes, are of velvet the same shade as the rich brown of the carpet.
The north wall of the study consists of a fireplace flanked by goldenwood bookcases that extend only as high as the top of the fireplace mantel, a flat shelf that holds two small busts of Jhosef, one at each end. The entire mantel structure appears to have been sculpted out of a pale tan marble. The fire area is concealed b
y a decorative bronze screen featuring an image of the villa itself as seen from the east side of the lake. Each bookcase has four large shelves, but only the second shelf from the top contains books. The top of each bookcase and the other three shelves contain an assortment of ornate boxes, each one different from any other, and of a variety of materials and sizes, and include small golden boxes, oblong silver boxes, and even one formed of interlocking triangles of lapis lazuli.
The wide pedestal goldenwood desk set out from the south wall of the study has an inlaid border on the top that matches the carpet design. Bronze lamps on each side of the desktop have mirrors on the outer side, slightly tilted forward, presumably to focus the reflected light on the center of the desk to allow easier reading after dark. The chair pulled back from the desk is upholstered in the same padded brown leather as the two armchairs that face the fireplace.
Something about the study … Then Lerial realizes that he stands in the first study he can recall that does not have what amounts to a conference or plaques table within it.
He walks to the desk, admiring the workmanship of the inlay pattern, reflecting on all that he has viewed over the past two glasses, ranging from an extensive subterranean wine cellar in one outbuilding, to the three cells of a dungeon beneath the barracks building, adjoining an armory still containing a considerable assortment of well-maintained weapons. Both the barracks and dungeon have been recently occupied. Surrounding the villa are the varied gardens, several of which can be entered from a handful of the more than a score of luxurious chambers in the south wing of the villa. There is even a small locked chamber that serves as repository for chests of golds and silvers. Finding the key had not been that difficult. It had been one of three concealed in Jhosef’s wide leather belt.
Lerial, accompanied by Norstaan, had unlocked the strongbox chamber and viewed the three chests—one for golds, one for silvers, and one for coppers. He hadn’t counted the coins, just estimated, and that estimate suggested that the three small chests contained an amount equal to more than five thousand golds.
Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) Page 56