by David Ekrut
Since surviving the trap set for her in Eoiasis, Jesnia vowed not to get involved with Bain’s thumping war again. Let the man find his own son without her. She’d rather kiss a wyvern than work for him. Shaking off the shiver trying to inch its way up her spine, she grabbed her gear and left the room, making her way quietly to the common room.
It was empty, but cooking smells wafted from the back room. As much as she wanted to stop for a bite, there was no time. She swiped a slice of the marble bread at the end of the bar and hurried toward the exit.
She opened the door and slipped out, easing it closed behind her. The skies were clear. Breathing in the fall air, she let it out as she passed the short garden. Finches pecked at the leaves and golden grass, chirping at one another. She was not one to give in to superstitions, but the day had started well. She had breakfast and the day was not too cool.
The path gave way to the main road. She turned east, toward the castle. The white spires loomed far above the palatial homes on either side of the road. By its size alone, the castle of Alcoa could have been a statue chiseled from a mountain by a team of giants.
She stopped as a large shadow passed in front of her. Looking up, she could see a wooden sedan soaring above the buildings. On the bottom and sides was the painting of a red eagle in flight, marking the cart as property of the Guild of the Carriers.
Taking a bit of her bread, she watched the shadow move up the street. Why would anyone step into the confines of such a flying death-trap? She’d heard traveling the skies to be safer than walking or riding through the city, but who other than madmen enjoyed being inside a vessel suspended in the air with nothing more than breath for support? Those rich fools inside held no chance of surviving a fall from such a height. A well-aimed arrow could still reach the man in the red surcoat standing on the platform at the sedan’s head. He could faint or just decide to drop his occupants. Any number of mishaps could bring their joyride to a crashing end.
Not this bounty hunter. Her one experience with flight in the deserts of Kalicodon still gave her night terrors. She had only taken such a risk to escape a burning palace. Plunging to her death would have been preferable to drowning in the molten rock that had consumed the compound in Eoiasis.
Jesnia continued to the end of the street, keeping left at the fork to angle toward the castle. As she journeyed to the center of Alcoa, other early risers began to join her on the street. Most were well-dressed men and women in carts or on horseback. Few of them deigned to look at her. Most went by with no more than a glance in her direction.
She did not look like a pauper in her leather trousers and tailored blouse, but walking in Alcoa Proper while finishing her breakfast did not scream of nobility either. Not that she cared what the stuck-nose members of high society thought about her appearance.
Before she could finish the thought, Jesnia heard deep laughter erupt behind her. She looked over her shoulder to see an open carriage moving in her direction. Two men in rich garb sat aside one another, both staring at her with amused expressions. As the carriage rolled past, Jesnia met the eyes of the fat one without blinking. As they neared, she wrapped her fingers slowly around the pommels of the swords at her belt. The amusement vanished from the man’s round face. His gaze fell to Jesnia’s weapons and quickly looked away. The nobleman didn’t glance back as the coach moved farther down the street.
Jesnia smirked.
It was laughable how people with excess coin thought wealth made them somehow worth more than those without. Coins would help the nobles to buy fineries and luxurious flying sedans, but who made their goods? A noble would not sully his hands to create something worthwhile. He would pay someone with real worth to do it, all the while thinking he held all the power. But without the gold, what real value did the noble have? Common or high-born, all blood shimmered the same hue across her blades.
And sometimes coins were no use. If war struck this street, every noble looking down his nose at her would beg her to save him.
The street ended in a large gate then split off in opposite directions, running alongside the colossal wall to the palatial grounds. Beyond the gate, white walls stretched into the sky, forming intricate spires. She craned her neck to see the top of the lowest tower. The rest of the castle disappeared in low-hanging clouds.
At least a hundred guards stood out front. None twitched a muscle as she passed, but she could feel their awareness on her as she continued down the street.
She stopped at a building across from the palace’s third gate. Stone columns held up a gabled porch. Above the steps, a locked chest with silver gilding was etched into the wall. Two guards wore the same symbol on their iron breastplates and the neck of their cloaks. They stood in front of the door, eyes forward.
“Name,” the one on the left said.
“Jesnia of house Fointua.” She loathed giving her true surname, but even if the Lenders did not already know her, they could see straight through any lie or half-truth.
The eloiglyphs on the guard’s gauntlet activated when he touched the latch on the door. “Enter.”
She stepped inside the warm room, a contrast to the cool morning air outside. Her boots clanked on the marble. The sound echoed off the high ceilings. She walked down the two rows of dark, green columns to the polished counter at the other end.
An old man stood out front. His gaunt features were not made attractive by his smile. “Mistress Fointua. I presume you are ready to discuss terms of our contract.”
“Aye.”
He gestured toward a hall beside the windows, where patrons exchanged their coins for promissory notes. “This way, if you please.”
Many private rooms were to her right. Nobles and merchants from other cities rented the spaces to conduct business. The Lender led her to the last one, opening the door for her. A silver chest was imprinted on each of the high-backed chairs and on the front of the long table. The old woman and two men siting at the table’s head shared enough features, they could be siblings.
The woman demanded attention with a sharp gaze and knowing stare. Her gray hair was held back in a bun. Platinum embroidered her doublet. Eloiglyph tattoos covered fingers, disappearing up her sleeves.
Her escort pulled out a chair near the others and motioned for Jesnia to sit with a perfunctory, “Please.”
When she sat, her escort stepped back against the wall, folding his hands in front of him like a servant.
“Thank you for coming, Mistress Fointua,” the woman said. “As you know, we have a bounty for you. Before we discuss matters further, we need you to sign this agreement.” She pushed the top parchment in her stack across to Jesnia.
As she read it over, the woman continued. “It is a standard promise not to disclose the matters discussed in this meeting. If you choose to take the bounty, you will only speak on matters necessary to achieve the Lenders’s goals.”
The dutiful escort-turned-servant placed an inkwell with quill next to Jesnia’s hand. She took the pen and made her mark at the bottom. As she replaced the pen, her escort-turned-servant took the parchment and placed it just out of reach.
“Now,” the woman said with mild agitation to her tone, “What do you know of counterfeiting coins?”
“Someone would need to be mad to do something so foolish,” she said, honestly. Only kings and bankers minted coins, and kings only at the behest of the Lenders, so the saying went.
“This bounty, should you choose to accept it, will be to seek out the criminal known to us only as Coin. While in our services, we will pay you and any in your employ a retainer. I am certain the amount will be acceptable.” She pushed the next few papers from the stack.
Jesnia found the sum on the third line and didn’t need to read anymore. She did, of course, and with each new perk, her internal smile grew. She did not let the feeling of delight show in her expression.
Just as she signed, t
he ground vibrated, followed by a muted crash. She stood, knocking her chair backward. The Lenders moved as if unconcerned. Her escort retrieved the signed document as though the ground did not quake beneath them.
“What is happening?” she demanded. “Bain?”
The woman took the parchment from the guard and inspected the signature, then rolled the contract into a scrollcase. The glyphs on the side flared, and the vellum doubled.
The Lender removed the copy and placed it and several other documents into a second scrollcase. She offered the tube to Jesnia. “The dragon wars will not affect our business. This contains your copy of our agreement, what we know of the counterfeiter, and information on how to reach us in any city. Be swift.”
Jesnia took the offered case and shoved it into her inner cloak pocket. “What in the abyss are you talking about? The dragons are a myth.”
The woman sighed. “You will find many changes are coming. But do not forget our accord. Regardless of who rules, the Lenders will endure. Begin your queries to the southeast. That is where the counterfeit coins have been found in the highest quantities.” She nodded toward the door.
More crashes shook the ground, closer this time.
Jesnia nodded to the woman and left, not slowing for the escort to catch her. Whatever in the abyss was happening, she needed to get clear of Alcoa. She’d vowed not to be a part of Bain’s war, and she’d meant it. Dragons? How ridiculous. The man sprinted ahead and opened the door.
She hesitated at the threshold.
A sedan fell from the skies. The driver’s seat was empty. The well-dressed passengers screamed. Their arms flailed to no effect. One man leapt from his seat just before the carriage crashed into the street. He thudded to a stop next to the wreckage.
Jesnia looked up. A dozen winged beasts stalked above the city. Hundreds of figures flew about. Elemental energy fizzled off thick scales. She found herself ambling into the road, gripping the hilts of her blades.
At the sound of footsteps behind her, she pulled the bow from her shoulder and spun. She aimed and notched an arrow in one motion. The fat noble fell to the cobbles. He reached a hand toward her, unaware of the arrow protruding from the center of his forehead.
He gasped a single word. “Help.”
The hand fell still.
Jesnia ran.
Chapter 4
A New World
My Dear Anetia,
Thank you for your kind words and for the quilt. The fabric is quite lovely. Did you spin it yourself, or is it a transmutation? I cannot tell, and the craftsmanship is quite remarkable. I hope you enjoy the stew recipe. It was my mother’s.
I agree that hiding was the prudent path for our ancestors. But matters have changed. We are forgotten. Barely more than myth. Even the long memories of the Sacred Order have waned. This is our chance to rise again. I do hope you will join me in the cause.
As for myself, I will likely defect from the Circle of Makers. Is it mere chance that in my time of contemplative quandary the Keepers of the Dragonkin have contacted me for recruitment, or is it part of a larger design? They’ve heard tales of my research and wish to fund my efforts. I might have little choice but to join them. My current benefactor and I disagree more vehemently than even you and I on the role we should play in the war with the elementalists. There is a better way, but it would require dispensing with outdated traditions.
Each order of magi is known for certain strengths. The Order of the Sun and Stars contains mostly the jaunters, who hold the secrets of higher dimensions. The Invisible Fist prides their members on having the most competent incanters with a focus in telekineses and transmutation. The Body of Reckoners breed telepaths, and the Dancing Eyes have their illusionists. The Farseers are clairvoyant.
Only the Keepers train their members to specialize in all schools of incantations. Their offer is generous. Even without my disagreements with Lendantis, I’ll admit, the thought of leaving the Circle of Makers is enticing—despite the bounty they would place on my head for doing so. It is madness, right? Abandoning the order I was born to in favor of lofty ideals and unlimited respect for my contributions?
Yours truly,
~Ricaria Beratum, 2992 A.S.
~
Thunderclouds filled the horizon.
It would rain soon, but Elwin would almost welcome the respite from the heat of his work. He swung his hatchet into a thick branch of the fallen tree. The wood splintered around the steel head with a satisfying thwack. Similar sounds echoed through the courtyard as soldiers and townsfolk helped clean up the wreckage left by the dragon’s attack.
He shook his head at the thought. Thumping dragons! He’d not tamed since they disappeared. He’d gone most of his life without taming. It had only been twelve days, but it felt like an eternity. It wasn’t by choice. King Lifesong had advised against taming until a full investigation could be conducted to discern the reason for the dragon’s attack.
In the best of times, those without the power to tame the Elements did not care much for those who could. What would happen now? At the corner of his gaze, he could see the suspicious glances from the other workers.
Pushing the people from his thoughts, he swung his hatchet. The labor reminded him of the farm. His chest burned at the memory of working alongside his father. Drenen Escari was still alive and out there somewhere. Zeth had turned him into a Soulless One, bound to an artifact the black savant carried. When they took back the castle, maybe he could save his father.
But that would do nothing for Feffer. He was on a ship, bound for Alcoa or the Lifebringer knew where. Zeth had left a letter for Elwin to follow, alone. With the dragons returned and the war, King Lifesong could not afford to spare resources to journey after them.
Elwin slammed the axehead deep into the wood and left it. He was breathing hard, he realized. He stepped back, taking several long breaths.
His eyes fell on the darkened stain on the cobbles. That had been where Breaklin died. The Air master had retired from a lifetime of service to the crown and settled in Northport. He had only come out of retirement at Zaak’s request, to train Elwin and Zarah.
It was still hard to believe Breaklin was gone.
Elwin put his foot in the wood and yanked the hatchet free. His thoughts returned to Breaklin’s battle with the dragon. It had been immune to tamings. And the language it spoke. Why had it been so familiar? He’d never left the island, and certainly it had not come from here. Daki spoke the tongue of the Chai, and Hulen’s native language was dwarven. Neither of those sounded like the dragon’s words. And they had done things. Their syllables had power.
Elwin stopped mid-swing and nearly fumbled his hatchet. That was it. The dragons knew the words of power. Asalla had given him a manual about this. The old book merchant came to Benedict every year for the Summer Solstice Festival. Asalla had said the tome was about elementalists, but it didn’t speak of taming. He’d thought Asalla had given the tome to him by mistake and hadn’t given it much attention. The little Elwin had skimmed spoke of the words of power. There was a strange alphabet in the front. But surely it wasn’t—
“Elwin.”
He turned to see Zarah watching him with a concerned expression. Her hair was pulled back in a warrior’s tail. Dirt and sweat streamed down her face. She held a hatchet at her side.
“You’ve been working?” he asked, more out of surprise than to get an answer.
“Yes. Everyone is and still, it will take months to set the city to rights.”
Elwin nodded, trying to recall his line of thinking before she’d interrupted his thoughts.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
“Yeah. I’m just thinking about the dragon attack. I feel like there’s something we could have done to help.”
“There is not. I have been over the battle several times with father. Had we intervened, we would lik
ely be dead or greatly injured.”
“Is that his assessment or yours?”
“Both. He convinced me of this truth.”
“Is he alright?”
“Who? Father? Of course. He is king.”
“But he knew Breaklin. They were friends, right?”
“Yes,” she said with some hesitation. “Master Breaklin trained father in the sword and how to defend against tamings.”
“Then he must be sad. How is he handling it?”
Zarah frowned. “You cannot be as familiar with him now. It is not proper. He is the king. And the king stands strong. Understand?”
Elwin gave her a deep courtly bow. “Yes, daughter-heir.”
She inclined her head, much in the way her mother would have, appearing not to notice his sarcastic tone.
Returning to the original topic, he asked, “So, do you think the dragons are only going after elementalists, as Breaklin thought?”
Zarah’s lips tightened. “Yes. I do. We were invisible to it until we tamed. And according to witnesses from attacks to other parts of the city, the dragons sought only other elementalists. And there’s more. Justice City was attacked as well.”
“It was? But it is controlled by the black savants.”
“Was controlled,” she corrected. “They’ve all been killed or scattered. The fall of the black savants left the skeletal warriors unorganized, and they had few human soldiers to speak of. Our citizens rose up and took back the capital.”
“Wow!” Elwin exclaimed. “How did they organize so quickly?”
“They had already been planning a coup. When the opportunity presented itself, they struck.”
“That’s amazing!”
Zarah gave a tight smile. “Indeed.”