Artesans of Albia

by Cas Peace

  “They reckoned without Morgan. As soon as he understood the implications of the Sacrament and what was bound to happen should we refuse it, his clear voice rang out over our heads. ‘I am willing’ was all he said.”

  Sullyan nodded slowly. “He had rediscovered a purpose to his life. Having lost everything, he suddenly saw hope. Something only he could do, something that would rectify an impossible situation.”

  The two men stared at her in silence, and Robin’s expression told her he was afraid she had found a parallel to her own situation in her father’s story. He feared she foresaw a similar end for herself.

  Pharikian nodded. “Yes. Once his mind was made up, there was no dissuading him, no matter what I said. Skeptical about his ability to carry it through, and half suspecting that he would renege at the last moment, the nobles signed the Sacrament. We all surrendered a tiny portion of our psyche to Morgan. I kept trying to talk him out of it, but he knew what would happen if the Sacrament was refused. My rule—indeed, the very stability of our realm—depended on him.

  “And then it was too late. The Sacrament was signed and it had to be fulfilled. I had to stand strong and allow him his wish. I had to bid farewell to my dearest friend. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Before he left us, in the name of our friendship he asked me to look out for you, Brynne, to extend the same friendship if ever we met. I was more than happy to agree. I would have done so without his asking.”

  Robin glanced sideways at Sullyan, hoping his question wouldn’t give her too much pain. “But how did it happen? How did he fulfill this … Sacrament?”

  Pharikian was silent, watching Sullyan’s face. She felt numb, as if all her senses were in stasis. Raising her eyes to Robin’s, she sent him a flash of memory. He saw again the little drovers’ hut the day after her rescue and felt again her anguished spirit brushing past him on its wild dash for oblivion. His face drained of color as understanding dawned. “Oh!”

  Such power came with the increase in strength required to become a Master Artesan. Anyone who reached that rank had the power to relinquish their hold on life and choose to pass on to the next existence, whatever that might be.

  Sullyan included Pharikian in the exchange and felt his horror on learning that she had so nearly done what her father had chosen to do, and in such extremity. His yellow eyes filled with pain and he leaned forward, his voice rough and urgent.

  “I swear to you, I will have an accounting of Rykan for his brutal treatment.”

  She shook her head firmly. “Majesty, I claim that right. His life is mine.”

  There was naked venom in her tone and Pharikian recoiled. “As you wish, child. I acknowledge your right. I grant you his life.”

  She reached out, took his hand, and pressed it in apology and gratitude. His expression softened. “Brynne, would you like to see your parents?”

  She startled before she realized what he meant. He could show her their faces from his own memory. Finally, after years of futile wonder, she would know what they looked like. Her heart gave a lurch. “That would please me very much.”

  Her eyes dilated as she accepted the Hierarch’s contact. Reaching for Robin’s hand, she prepared to share the experience with him. When Pharikian’s mind opened in hers, she saw the image of a medium height, slightly built man with short, dark auburn hair. His eyes were a warm brown, his pleasant face serene, his lips relaxed in a gentle smile. Catching her breath, Sullyan drank in the face of her sire.

  Then a second figure came into focus alongside Morgan, and it was Robin’s turn to gasp. Standing at her husband’s side was a woman who, but for the deep brown of her eyes, could have been Sullyan herself. The wealth of tawny hair was the same, although Bethyn wore hers shorter than her daughter did. Her build and height were the same, as were her small, finely featured face and creamy skin. As she turned to look lovingly at her husband, the opals at her throat and ears glinted in the light of some long ago summer’s day.

  A sob escaped Sullyan’s throat and Pharikian let the images fade. Once again, he gathered her into his arms and rocked her like a child.

  It was growing late and what remained of the food had long since gone cold. Taking the fellan pot from the fire, Robin poured some into a cup and touched Sullyan on the arm. “Brynne?”

  The name sounded unfamiliar on his tongue. She pushed away from Pharikian, responding to the care in Robin’s voice. As she accepted the cup, she allowed her fingers to caress his. Once she had taken a few sips, she was able to speak again. “Timar, I have one final question, and then I think we both need to rest.”

  She did indeed feel very tired, and knew she looked strained around the eyes. Pharikian looked no better.

  “Anything, child.”

  “You said earlier that my mother wanted you to be the first to see her child, to repay you for what you had given her.” He nodded, his gaze sharp on her face. “Both my parents were dark-eyed, and no one in Albia has eyes like mine.” She stared back at him. “Timar, where do I get my coloring from?”

  His smile broadened. “Well done, child, you are very quick. I wondered if you’d guess this final twist to the story. Deshan had discovered that Bethyn’s miscarriages were due to her spending too much time in our realm. He found that her body had suffered slight damage and so was unable to carry a child for more than a few weeks. As he looked through our archives for a way to help her, he unearthed a parchment which led him to believe that if she was treated with small infusions of Andaryan blood her body would become acclimatized to our alien atmosphere.”

  Robin frowned. “Are you saying that someone gave blood to Sullyan’s mother, and that this blood somehow affected the color of her eyes?”

  “Indeed I am, son. None of us foresaw that outcome—not even Deshan—and no one has ever been able to explain it. Nevertheless, that is what happened.” He turned back to Sullyan. “So you see, child, you are not entirely alone in the world. Should you wish to acknowledge the connection, you can claim that we are related. You get your golden eyes from me, Brynne. The blood Bethyn received that allowed you to be born was mine.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Exhausted by the Hierarch’s startling revelations, Sullyan and Robin slept deeply. A gentle tap on the outer door woke them just after dawn. Robin threw a robe about his slim body as he padded through the living area to answer it. A servant brought in breakfast, followed by another bearing their clothes, which had been cleaned and pressed. The Hierarch had arranged that courtesy the day before and Sullyan was grateful. She wanted to appear at her professional best today, and travel-stained clothing would do her no favors.

  Lying still in the bed, she was unwilling to surrender the peace and wellbeing she felt. She hadn’t realized how debilitating the cramp in her belly had been, but now that she wasn’t expending power to keep it at bay, she felt fit and strong. Raising herself on one elbow, she watched Robin as he returned from seeing the servants out. His robe had fallen open and she saw, with loving admiration, that he was also feeling fit and strong.

  They finally found time to attend to the food on the tray before putting the final touches to their attire. Sullyan had decided to wear her dress uniform rather than her combat leathers, and was startled and pleased when she discovered a gold Andaryan rank badge—a crown surmounted by a single star, equivalent to her own double thunderflash—lying on a dress jacket which was subtly trimmed with purple. She attached the badge to the jacket before putting it on.

  Robin whistled. “He doesn’t want anyone to be in doubt of his support, does he?”

  Smiling, Sullyan held up a second jacket bearing a lieutenant’s insignia, obviously intended for Robin. The Captain raised his brows in appreciation and shrugged into it.

  Sullyan braided her hair with care. She wanted to divert attention from her gender today, if that was at all possible in this male-dominated society. The meeting would be difficult enough without inviting their prejudice.

  Soon, one of Pharikian’s pa
ges arrived to escort her to the royal presence. This was a private meeting between Sullyan and the Hierarch, but Robin knew he would be accompanying her to the main briefing session later.

  Sullyan returned from her private meeting with Pharikian looking calm. The page who bowed her back into the suite grinned cheekily at her, reminding her even more strongly of young Tad. Sullyan smiled and ruffled his blond hair before sending him scampering off.

  Robin looked up from his place on the settle. “I finally managed to contact Bull while you were gone. How did it go with the Hierarch?”

  She relaxed beside him. “Much as I expected. Timar is now fully aware of Rykan’s intentions as well as his hidden strength, and he agrees with my assessment of the Caer’s defense. However, Timar does not personally command his troops, neither is he skilled in military tactics. He leaves both to his generals. I have his permission to address the Lord General and put my proposals before him. Further than that, I did not expect him to go. Despite his support and offers of friendship, not even the Hierarch can order his warlords to trust me. That is something I must secure for myself. But at least we have time. As of yesterday, Rykan has still not begun his advance.

  “My love, I have a feeling that this meeting will be awkward and uncomfortable. Maybe even hostile. I must ask you to listen and observe closely, but remain silent. I may have to play these men very carefully indeed.”

  A couple of hours later, Sullyan and Robin were ushered into a much smaller but no less grand audience chamber than the one where they had first met the Hierarch. It was functional rather than formal. The throne sat at the head of a large oval table with chairs arranged around it to accommodate the other participants. The room was empty when Sullyan and Robin entered, and the page directed them to chairs at the side of the room where they could await the Hierarch and his generals.

  Sullyan sat quite still, trying to appear calm and composed. She saw Robin watching her and knew he was nervous, never having attended such a high level meeting before. The fire opal pulsing at the open neck of her shirt betrayed the rapid beat of her own heart, and she knew Robin could see it. She sat in silence, hands folded in her lap, rehearsing what she would say. Much depended on the reactions of the generals, both to her news and her presence.

  She didn’t have long to wait. Two guards opened the doors at the far end of the chamber and four men entered the room. At their head strode a truly massive and muscular man around forty-five years of age. He was black-haired and black-eyed, which was highly unusual for an Andaryan, and he wore full military uniform. His mouth was hidden by a dark mustache, and a rank badge showing a gold crown surmounted by three stars glittered on his chest.

  Sullyan murmured, “Lord General Anjer.”

  General Ephan followed Anjer, talking quietly to a shorter, stocky, pale-eyed man. Both bore double starred crown insignia. The last man was Commander Vanyr. He glanced sourly in Sullyan’s direction as he took his place behind one of the purple upholstered chairs. He stood there frowning, his white eyes cold and hostile. Sullyan ignored him.

  Next to arrive was Baron Gaslek, and he nodded politely to Sullyan as he positioned himself to the right of the Hierarch’s throne, parchment and quills in hand. His expression bore a trace of speculative respect, and the Major inclined her head to acknowledge him.

  Lastly, the Hierarch himself entered, flanked by two of his personal Guard. They escorted him to the throne before retiring to the door. At his entrance, everyone accorded him the Andaryan military salute; a closed fist held above the heart. Sullyan and Robin did likewise, adding the homage due to a Senior Master Artesan.

  As the warlords took their chairs, Sullyan noticed Ephan regarding her curiously, no doubt weighing the implications of the Hierarch’s colors on her jacket. She didn’t allow herself to react, but kept her eyes on Pharikian. When they were all settled, he greeted them, his blue veined hands resting lightly on the table. He swept them with his yellow gaze, as if judging their mood. Sullyan thought he looked tired.

  When he spoke, however, his voice was deep and strong. “Gentlemen, I believe there have been some developments in the deployment of Rykan’s forces. Your thoughts and reports, please.”

  He sat. There was a slight pause as Ephan glanced at the two Albians and gave a disapproving frown. The Hierarch didn’t comment, and so Ephan gestured for Vanyr to give his report. In a light, clipped voice, the Commander obeyed.

  “Majesty, at first light this morning my patrols returned to report that Lord Rykan’s forces have finally begun an advance on the Citadel. They are moving slowly and keeping to their marching formation. It is my opinion that if they continue to advance at this rate and remain unopposed, they will be able to adopt siege positions in around four days’ time.”

  Sullyan stiffened and stared hard at the Hierarch, but he was considering what Vanyr had said.

  “Based on this information, Ephan, what is your recommendation?”

  The General turned his head, his pale eyes regarding his ruler. “My recommendation remains unchanged, Majesty. We should sit tight. Rykan doesn’t field enough men to mount an effective siege, and the Caer is well provisioned. His lack of action since issuing the formal challenge has allowed us ample time to lay in extra stores. So let him surround us. Let him break his forces against our walls. We can pick off his men at leisure, and he’ll soon grow tired of his losses. And if he doesn’t, then our reserve troops can be summoned and they will dissuade him from continuing the siege.”

  Ephan’s casual reaction to the possibility of Rykan besieging the Caer made Sullyan gasp aloud. The other general, whose name she had yet to hear, turned to stare at her in undisguised annoyance. When Ephan had finished, this man eyed the Hierarch, pointedly clearing his throat.

  “Yes, Kryp. Do you wish to say something?”

  Gesturing with a heavy arm, General Kryp indicated Sullyan and Robin. He spoke deferentially, but his stiff tone suggested censure. His wheezy voice grated on Sullyan’s nerves. “Majesty, might I enquire as to why there are two Albians present at an Andaryan war council?”

  The Hierarch smiled coldly. “You may, Kryp.” He beckoned, inviting Sullyan to approach the table. She stood, placing a restraining hand on Robin’s shoulder when he would have risen also. Alone, she moved to the opposite end of the oval table and stood facing Pharikian. All four war leaders turned to stare at her. Lord General Anjer showed open but impassive curiosity. Ephan looked resigned. Both Kryp and Vanyr wore expressions of unveiled hostility. Sullyan ignored them all.

  “Gentlemen,” announced the Hierarch, “may I present Major Brynne Sullyan, Master-elite, Ambassador and King’s Envoy to Elias Rovannon, High King of Albia.”

  Kryp’s eyes narrowed and Sullyan would have given much to know which of her titles concerned him the most. Ephan, who already knew something of her reputation, looked speculative. Vanyr’s hostility hadn’t changed. Anjer’s expression was wary and he leaned forward, cocking his head at Pharikian. “Did you say ‘Sullyan’, Majesty?”

  The elderly ruler met his General’s gaze. “That’s right, Anjer.”

  “I see.” Anjer turned to face Sullyan and inclined his head. “Major Sullyan.”

  She had to give him credit. There was only the mildest hint of condescension in his tone. She responded by according him a very respectful Andaryan-style salute, and he raised his brows. After the briefest of hesitations, he returned it.

  “Might I ask why you are here, Major?”

  She answered calmly and clearly. “Because, my Lord General, I carry vital information concerning the Duke of Kymer’s forces and battle plans.”

  She stood easily, her hands clasped behind her back as if she was facing General Blaine, not four hostile and powerful alien lords. She hoped they would at least respect her courage.

  Anjer’s smile was disdainful, and his black brows rose higher. “And how, pray, did you come by this ‘vital’ information?”

  Sullyan kept her tone neutral. “I had it from
the Duke’s own lips, my Lord.”

  There was an angry stir and mutters of disbelief. Anjer’s smile and tone turned patronizing. “Are we supposed to accept that the Duke of Kymer took you into his confidence before sending you here to conveniently tell us of his plans?” He snorted and turned to Pharikian. “Come now, Majesty. I can understand your desire to accept her given your old friendship with Morgan, but really! What is this?”

  The Hierarch faced him down. “I think it would behoove us to listen to what the Major has to say, Anjer.”

  He put a slight emphasis on her rank, and this provoked a loud and irritated snort from Kryp, who gestured in her direction. “Major? Don’t make me laugh! Look at her, Majesty. She’s no more than a child. Don’t they have enough men in Albia that they have to let women run around playing soldier? Have they all been emasculated?” He stared at Sullyan, his pale eyes roving insultingly over her slender body. His voice dripped contempt. “What can you possibly know of military matters, girl?”

  Slowly and deliberately, Sullyan turned her gaze on him. Her eyes were hard and clear, showing no fear.

  “You may consider me no more than a girl, General Kryp, but let me tell you that I have spent thirteen years in the active service of my King—most of it in the field. I went through the same rigorous training process as any other cadet, only being accepted by the King once I had passed the tests and proved my abilities. I won my own command at the age of eighteen and have held it ever since, spending five years as a Captain and three as a Major. The men of my command are disciplined, ordered, and successful, as these battle honors above my heart bear witness. They were presented personally by the High King, and I wear them proudly. Ask Elias Rovannon whether I merit my rank! Any one of you is welcome to check my credentials. I carry a copy of my orders signed by his hand, as well as my appointment to the post of King’s Envoy.