Artesans of Albia

by Cas Peace

  Sonten tried not to cower but the Duke’s anger was flaring. The man was charismatic and powerful, capricious and brutal; it was hard not to be intimidated when he could take your life without a thought. He had seen the Duke’s killing rages before.

  “My apologies, your Grace, I meant no criticism. I am merely concerned for your safety, as is my duty.”

  The Duke stared balefully, as if weighing Sonten’s sincerity. Or maybe his usefulness. Whichever it was, he obviously decided it was worth more than the brief gratification he would get from killing Sonten. He turned away, missing Sonten’s slump of relief.

  Casually, he said, “My alliance with the Baron is none of your concern, Sonten. If he perceives my actions as being beneficial to his plans, then well and good. By the time he realizes his mistake, he’ll be powerless to influence my hand. I will have won my desire. And those who help me win it, Sonten, by loyal and unstinting service, will not be forgotten. Bear that in mind next time you think to question me.

  “Now, go rouse your messenger and contact Commander Heron. I want to leave at first light with a full honor guard and the retainers I’ve already selected. You’d better come, too, I might need you while we’re there.”

  Summarily dismissed, Sonten left the room, his thoughts frantic. If the Duke hadn’t yet discovered the shocking theft of the Staff, then the success of this venture would mean he soon would. Perhaps the length of time since its actual removal would put Sonten in the clear, a fact he hadn’t even considered. He’d already supplied his overlord with a perfectly good reason for Jaskin’s death, so why should his Grace suspect him? Providing he kept a cool head and betrayed no guilty thoughts, he should be safe.

  He might not have much power but one thing he did know, having heard Jaskin say it many times. Weak Artesans, in common with the ungifted, still had strong natural shields, strong enough to protect their thoughts from casual probing. So if Sonten didn’t give himself away, he should have nothing more to fear.

  Smiling nastily and feeling better than he had since his nephew’s death, Sonten strode toward the servants’ quarters. He would send someone to rouse Imris, who had been released to his rest.

  Yet even as he framed the orders he would give Heron, realization slammed into Sonten’s mind. Abruptly, he stopped, all thought arrested. Disbelief flooded his heart; how could he have been so blind? Why had he let his fears override his natural cunning? Why hadn’t he seen the obvious, dangling right before his eyes?

  Shaking his head at his laughable stupidity, Sonten resurrected his plans. He didn’t need Jaskin, with his youth, his contempt and his condescending comments. What he needed was an Artesan who owed him allegiance. What he needed was a man who’d already been bought.

  Grinning maliciously and lighter of step than he’d been for days, Sonten roared for his Artesan messenger.

  + + + + +

  The sun rose in a pale pink haze. Low rays slanted through swirling mist, catching in the horses’ eyes. Hooves stamped and harness jingled as maned heads tossed and jaws champed the bit. Breath from many nostrils plumed into the frosty air and swords were eased in their sheaths.

  Battle fervor gleamed in slit-pupiled eyes.

  Both commanders watched their men. This was the last effort, the final feint before the main offensive, and they were determined to do their best. Much was at stake, not least the Duke’s favor. Rewards awaited those who did well. The threat of death loomed for those who did not.

  The two leaders eyed each other, rivals on the same side. Verris smiled slyly and Heron turned away. Verris knew what the other man thought of his far-reaching ambitions; the self-righteous Heron would never let personal gain deflect him from his duty. Well, let him dance attendance on his fat general, thought Verris. As if that would get him anywhere. Verris didn’t intend to be merely a commander for long.

  He saw Heron give a casual nod and move out his men. Verris snorted and did the same. The two companies took opposite directions, the horses curvetting and straining to be off. It had been a cold night and their muscles were stiff; the short ride would warm them and prepare them for the assault.

  Verris cast a scornful look over his shoulder. Heron thought he was superior because his Artesan rank was one level higher than Verris,’ but Verris intended to show him that metaphysical prowess was not the only route to success. He was one of the Duke’s personal retainers and he intended to catch the great man’s eye, one way or another. Once he had sufficiently impressed the Duke, promotion into his elite guard would follow. That would be one in the eye for the haughty Heron.

  Full of his plans, Verris urged his men to greater speed.

  Their orders were to create panic among the Albians by catching them off guard before they were awake. There were three towns to the north and west of their starting position, with villages and hamlets between. Verris and Heron would aim for the smaller settlements first, crush them under their horses’ hooves and send the peasants running for the towns. Then they would sack the towns too, set fire to the houses and destroy what they could.

  Let the Albians run, gloated Verris. Let them empty the towns and run for their lives. There would be enough booty left for him and his men, even after the lords had taken their cut. Verris intended to have his pick of what was left. At least his boys knew better than to keep gold for themselves.

  Heron was far too soft with his lot. Whoever heard of letting them keep what they found? That was no way to get rich and Verris intended to be very rich one day.

  His men let out a cry, telling him they had sighted a village. Yelling them on, he reined back his snorting warhorse and watched the mayhem his lads inflicted. Very soon, clouds of sooty smoke billowed up, cries of wounded and terrified Albians singing in Verris’ ears.

  He took a moment to scan the horizon, scowling as he saw other signs of burning. Heron, it seemed, was busy, too. Roaring at his eager men, Verris ordered them to break off the attack and pushed them on to their next target. He left the screaming survivors huddling in their burning homes or fleeing for the nearest town.

  Laughing loudly, he galloped after his men.

  + + + + +

  Taran, Cal and Rienne woke after a comfortable night, undisturbed by any snoring from Bull’s room. They breakfasted simply in the apartment and the big man excused himself shortly after, saying he had duties to attend to. He told them they were free to wander the Manor grounds and left them instructions on how to reach the commons again.

  “You won’t see the Major until at least this afternoon,” he said. “And then only if what she hears from Robin interests her. Her time is heavily committed and she’ll let Robin deal with anything that doesn’t warrant her personal attention. If I were you, I’d spend the morning reviewing what you told us yesterday. See if there’s anything more you can add.”

  He stared meaningfully at Taran and the Journeyman knew he had guessed some things had been left unsaid.

  “Either Robin or I will meet you in the commons at noon. Feel free to use my rooms until then.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” said Taran. “We’ll do as you suggest.”

  Bull nodded and left.

  Despite the big man’s advice and his fear of the Staff, all Taran could think about was the possibility of training. He knew there wasn’t the slightest chance of learning from Sullyan, but Robin’s casual mention had suggested to Taran that he might be willing to give some guidance. Taran’s estimation of the Captain had increased immeasurably on learning his Artesan rank and he was eager to learn anything he could, even from someone three years younger.

  At midday, he led Cal and Rienne to the commons, getting lost only once. An amused cadet put him right when he strayed into a lecture room by mistake. Guided by the smell of food, he finally opened the right door. He was a little dismayed to find no familiar faces in the half-packed commons, but no one seemed to mind when he took a free table.

  The light meal was over and the room beginning to empty when Robin finally
appeared. Dressed in combat leathers, he looked much more poised than he had the previous night. He greeted them gravely and smiled when Rienne inquired after the Major.

  “She’s much improved today,” he said, “although a morning spent with General Blaine might change that.” He turned to Taran. “She wants to speak to you later but she’s given me some instructions to carry out before then. Will you come with me?”

  Puzzled, Taran stood, the others following as Robin left the room. Hurrying to keep up with the long-striding Captain, Taran said, “Am I permitted to ask what the instructions are?”

  “You’ll soon find out,” said Robin obliquely.

  He led them outside, leaving behind the buildings as they walked down a wooded track in the autumn sunshine. Eventually, it opened into a wide circular arena of short-cropped grass, bordered by wooden benches. It was deserted, silent except for bird song.

  Taran gazed around, sensing an air of combat about the place.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  The Captain waved Rienne and Cal to the benches. He guided Taran to the center of the arena and faced him squarely.

  “In the light of what you told us yesterday, and especially in view of your training, the Major has asked me to assess your level of competence.”

  Offended, Taran bridled. “My father trained me well. I can assure you I earned my rank.”

  Robin smiled. “I don’t doubt it. Nevertheless, that’s what I’ve been asked to do. Do you agree to the test? If your abilities are what you say, you have nothing to fear. I intend you no harm, I only want to familiarize myself with your psyche and techniques.”

  Taran hesitated, but in reality he had little choice. He also realized he might learn something new. He made up his mind to embrace the chance to surprise Robin into a measure of respect.

  “Very well,” he said.

  Robin smiled again and Taran realized the Captain had sensed his resolve. “Observation number one,” said Robin. “Conceal your emotions from your opponent.”

  He held out his hand for Taran to clasp. The Journeyman took it, physical contact being essential for the two men to learn each other’s unique pattern of psyche. It took Taran a few minutes to commit Robin’s incredibly complex pattern to memory and he was impressed anew when Robin took less than seconds to memorize his own.

  They stepped apart and the Captain led Taran through the various disciplines of the Journeyman rank, from communication to control; from wielding power to portway-building. They meshed psyches in order to communicate and this highlighted the differences in their rank. Taran was overwhelmed by the depth of the Captain’s pattern compared to his own. Despite feeling overawed and awkward, he did his best to impress.

  He heard Cal give the occasional grunt of admiration as they worked and knew even he could tell that Robin had by far the superior power. As Adept-elite, two levels higher than Journeyman, Robin not only had mastery over the elements of Earth and Water, but could also influence the tertiary element, Fire. Yet despite these obvious differences, Taran thought he’d acquitted himself well.

  Bull appeared halfway through the session and sat by Cal. Taran saw his Apprentice put an arm around Rienne’s shoulders, drawing her away from the big man. He didn’t think Cal noticed Bull’s smile.

  Taran finished the final test. As Robin nodded approval, he released the Earth power he had called in order to form the largest portway he could make and the element drained from his psyche. Taran nearly sagged; the effort had left him perspiring.

  He heard Bull say, “Well done, lads,” but his attention wasn’t on the big man.

  The look in Robin’s eyes told Taran someone was standing behind him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Taran turned around to see that Major Sullyan had entered the arena. His heart lurched at the sight of her.

  The afternoon sun in her glorious hair had transformed her from the frail-looking creature of the day before. Pristine combat leathers accentuated her slender neatness, and a steel blade was belted at her right hip. Her double-thunderflash rank insignia and battle honors gleamed above her left breast. Her golden eyes shone with health and her smooth skin radiated a faint amber bloom.

  Taran stared in stunned admiration, the rapid thump of his heart unconnected to his earlier exertions. He knew with a certainty rooted deep in his soul that he had never seen anyone so beautiful in his life.

  Gracefully, she moved toward Robin, showing no trace of a limp. Placing her hand on the Captain’s arm, she smiled up at him.

  “That was well done, Robin. Now tell me what you learned.”

  The Captain turned to face Taran. “He’s been well trained but there are gaps in his knowledge, as you thought,” he said. “He builds a strong portway but his psyche is weak in places and his control is not absolute, as it should be. He also suppresses his emotions instead of using them.”

  This casual assessment irritated Taran but he couldn’t deny that while he felt exhausted, Robin showed no sign of physical effort.

  The Major was regarding him. “And his offensive skills?”

  “We haven’t got to combat yet,” said Robin, “I thought he’d appreciate a rest first. We can begin now, if you like.”

  “No,” she said, still gazing at Taran, “permit me.”

  “Major,” the Captain protested, “there’s no need to exert yourself. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Peace, Robin. It has been a while since I had to exercise such control. It will be good for me. Besides, I am curious.”

  Unbuckling her sword belt, she laid the weapon on a bench before inviting Taran to precede her into the center of the arena. “Are you ready, Journeyman? I promise not to overtax you. I am not at full strength yet.”

  Taran nodded, although he felt apprehensive. He moved to the center of the grassy space and turned to face the Major. He raised his mental shield.

  With a light laugh, she said, “Start with offense, Journeyman. Cast me an Earth ball and do not withhold your strength. You will not harm me.”

  Stung by this casual dismissal of his powers, his face reddened. But she didn’t comment, merely watched as he shaped a powerful ball of Earth force. He did his best, and when it was formed he threw it at her with no warning. Had it reached her, it could have knocked her from her feet, but she batted it almost playfully away and watched it dissolve.

  “That was clumsy, Journeyman,” she said, smiling slightly. “I am sure you can do better.”

  He tried again and so began one of the most exhausting afternoons of his life.

  The Major put him through every one of his small store of offensive maneuvers, effortlessly countering each one. She showed him how to improve some of his weaker attempts and then had him try again. She warned him to raise his shield and, despite her promise not to overtax him, the effort of defending himself from her attacks soon drove him to his knees. He heard Cal give a cry of protest. He kneeled, panting on the grass as Sullyan approached him.

  “Enough,” she said gently. She helped him rise and guided him back to the benches, where he sat with his chest heaving and his head hammering, feeling like he had been run over by a coach and six.

  To his amazement she said, “You have much talent and strength for a Journeyman, but you need more training. Robin was right, you have far too tight a rein on your emotions.”

  He looked at her in puzzlement and she smiled.

  “You must accept them and use them, Taran Elijah, not seek to override them. You cannot grow and develop until you realize the power of your passions. You have much potential, for you are a very passionate man. But you have been fortunate to survive the Veils by yourself, my friend. I would advise you not to brave them again without further instruction.”

  He sat in silence, trying process the Major’s words. With the cloth Rienne gave him, he mopped his streaming face. Slowly, his breathing calmed.

  He realized that Robin was standing with his arms folded, a stern look on his handsome face. H
owever, it seemed that Taran was not the object of the Captain’s disapproval.

  “Why did you do that?” he said, glaring at Sullyan. “I am perfectly capable.”

  She shot him a look of warning but he ignored her.

  “It was a waste of your strength,” he added. “Why overtax yourself unnecessarily?”

  She reacted archly. “Are you questioning my judgment, Captain?”

  Taran frowned; it seemed that Robin was deliberately goading her.

  “I just don’t think it was wise after what happened last week, that’s all. You did say you weren’t at full strength.”

  Taran could see the Major’s startling eyes had narrowed, and he could feel irritation emanating from her. He could feel something else, too, and suddenly wondered why Bull was watching them so intently.

  “Very well, Captain,” said Sullyan. “Shall we see if my strength has returned?”

  She moved back out into the arena and Taran just caught the fleeting smile on Robin’s face. The Captain’s eyes were fixed on Sullyan as he said, “Are you sure, Major? I don’t want to tire you.”

  Taran heard a faint chuckle beside him and he raised his brows at Bull.

  “Now you’ll see something,” murmured the big man. “Just watch.”

  Taran turned his attention back to the arena just in time to see the Major throw a Fireball at Robin’s head. He gasped. The young man barely dodged it and the Fireball hit the grass, sparks flying into the air.

  Taran stared in admiration. As a Journeyman, he couldn’t even influence Fire yet, let alone manipulate it. Neither had he sensed Sullyan form the Fireball, which was controlled so exquisitely the sparks didn’t even scorch the grass.

  “Not good enough, Captain,” she called, “I believe I taught you better than that. Remember, evasion will not suffice for the test.”

  She tossed him another, which he managed to counter by channeling the crackling energy through his psyche. He retaliated with a powerful Earth ball, immediately following it with a barrage of pelting hail.