The consequences had been quicker than Raelen anticipated. Two days following the incident, Saranna had been married off to a duke four times her age, one who lived at the furthest edge of the kingdom. It all happened so fast that Raelen hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye.
He awoke one morning to find Saranna’s room emptied, a cool, business-like announcement made by their father at the breakfast table the only word on the matter. It was less than a year later Raelen received the news Saranna had committed suicide by throwing herself off an eighth-story balcony. Even that had not been enough to turn Raelen against his father, loyal son that he was. No. It was the way the king took the news that did that.
There were no tears, no anguished words of regret, not even a formal retreat into private to mourn with the rest of the family. The king, Raelen’s father, had taken the news with the same emotion he would at being told what he was to be served for supper.
It was then Raelen had started to hate his father.
Raelen’s younger brothers dealt with Saranna’s loss in different ways, but the eventual result had been the same. They all left the palace to live elsewhere, leaving Raelen alone with their father–a man Raelen despised, but at the same time was forced to respect. He had thought about leaving too; perhaps captaining a sailing expedition to find the legendary old land, but he couldn’t. He was the crown prince of Aiestal. He had a duty to his family and their people. And so Raelen suffered in quiet, Gryyth his only confidant on the matter.
“Come to order!” the chamberlain sounded over the milieu of talking. The order didn’t have to be repeated as the group of officials fell immediately and obediently silent. The mere presence of Raelen’s father had that effect on people.
“His royal highness, King Raeleth Joran Taris the eighteenth, has summoned you to this council to answer the new threat posed by the nation of Haeshala.”
That announcement inspired a new round of conversation, which promptly miscarried when the king cleared his throat. Raelen, of course, knew of the matter. His father had counseled–well, more like informed–him about it days ago.
That was an odd intimacy the two of them shared; a trust Raelen had never seen his father place in any of his other children. He had always assumed it was because he was the crown prince and future king of the realm, and needed to be included in such matters in case of an unexpected succession crisis. That caused Raelen a pang of guilt.
There were times, when his grieving over Saranna had been so overpowering, he had wished for an unexpected succession crisis. Upon first hearing of his sister’s suicide, he’d actually flirted with the idea of being the cause of such a crisis. But no, Raelen was not a murderer no matter how angry he was with his father. Gryyth’s continual schooling in the Ursaj’s Seiro, or path of righteousness, had ground that sense of honor into him.
“Cubs are to do no violence to their sires, or to the memory of their ancestors,” the bear-man had reminded Raelen when, in a moment of rage, he had given voice to his murderous fantasies.
“Welcome back Navarch Pariel,” the chamberlain said as he motioned to someone in the crowd.
A tall, stoic man stepped forward and bowed to the king. His head was shorn after the military fashion, and he was dressed in a full suit of gleaming silver armor. He wore no sword; such was not allowed in the presence of the king. Upon his tabard was two swords embroidered crossed over an Apeira well, the family crest of Raelen’s house.
Raelen had known Pariel for all of his young life–eighteen short years–and even trained with the man on occasion. Other than that, he did not know him well. He seemed to Raelen an unremarkable fixture in his father’s court.
That was until last year when he won some notoriety for finding an ancient Allosian airship, a complex piece of talis craft that could actually fly. Pariel reported finding the ancient treasure while on a routine Ursaj acquisition patrol in the northern forest.
Although damaged, it wasn’t inoperable, and the king’s polymaths were able to fix most of the damage and return it to working order. Raelen himself had named it–White Hawk.
Raelen’s father had promoted Pariel as a reward, making him the chief pilot of the airship and Aiestal’s only Sky Navarch. As they only had one airship, the title was mostly honorary. Since then, the king had entrusted Pariel with progressively more important missions, the latest being a reconnaissance trip to spy on the neighboring kingdom of Haeshala.
“I bring word from the east,” Pariel said with a smooth articulation that belied his gruff appearance.
“Speak,” the king ordered formally.
“Prince Isara’s armies are raiding our border towns. Your citizens are retreating further into the kingdom, and their reports are most troubling.”
“How so?” Raelen’s father asked.
Pariel continued, “The villagers claim they saw no armies, but fires descended from the sky, setting their homes ablaze. The flames were well beyond their capacity to quench, and so they retreated.”
“Weapon talises,” Raelen thought aloud and then cringed when his father shot him a reproving glare. Not even the crown prince could speak in court without the king’s permission.
“That was my conclusion as well, my prince,” Pariel said with a nod to Raelen.
“Prelude to an invasion or just an intimidation tactic?” the king asked Pariel.
“I believe it to be both, Highness,” Pariel said. “I surmise that Prince Isara is testing us, goading us to respond in kind so that he can evaluate the number and power of our own weapon talises.”
“Then the goddess has delivered us in our time of need!” another voice rang throughout the chamber. It was accompanied by an audible gasp at the offense to decorum.
A man among the king’s soldiers and advisors stepped forward. He quickly went down to one knee before the throne, head bowed so low it was difficult for Raelen to hear his next words.
“I speak out of turn, but I am certain you will forgive the impropriety, Highness, when you hear what I have to say.”
The man was Loeadon, one of the king’s polymaths. He was tall and thin, with long black hair that fell nearly to his waist. He wore the traditional grey robes worn by scholars of the kingdom, and had three ring talises that he called attention to with exaggerated hand movements.
Loeadon was younger than his fellow polymaths were–appearing to be in his early forties–and was the newest member of their cadre. But by virtue of his unusual brilliance and impressive knowledge of talis-craft, he had risen to the rank of spokesman in less than two years. He was also an insufferable sycophant.
“I should hope so, Loeadon,” the king said.
Loeadon bobbed a bow before raising his head. Without breaking his gaze, he stood and waved for one of the other polymaths to bring something forward. A fat man in grey robes waddled up carrying an ancient-looking tome he handed over to Loeadon.
“This book was in the hold of the ship Navarch Pariel discovered last year.” Loeadon handed the tome to the chamberlain who, after a brief inspection, passed it onto the king. Raelen’s father opened the tome and flipped through its pages. Although the book had to be ancient, the pages looked to be in pristine condition. No fading, or tears, and they were as malleable as though they were newly bound.
It’s an Allosian bound book.
“Yes,” the king said thoughtfully, “I remember inspecting this. The writing is in the language of the Allosians.” King Raeleth looked up at Loeadon. “Have you finished translating it?”
Loeadon nodded eagerly. “It is a work detailing the process for creating talises.”
The king closed the book and handed it back to his chamberlain. “No doubt a scholar’s find of unparalleled worth, but not of much practical use without the ability to spell-cast. I am disappointed, Loeadon. This was not something urgent enough to justify a breach in the protocol of my court. I am afraid that as punishment, I will have to bar you from my presence for a term of–”
“–this wa
s found with it,” Loeadon interrupted, something that was followed by another collection of scandalized gasps. The polymath produced an object from within his robes–a circlet. It was made of what looked like ivory, and featured a large, circular cut amethyst in the center.
“What is it?” Raelen’s father asked, his curiosity having suspended any anger at being disrespected in front of the entire court; something that could very well have earned Loeadon a one-way trip to the gallows.
Brave man. Raelen began to see Loeadon in a new light. Or else that talis he’s holding is something remarkable. It turned out to be the latter.
“This is a talis that allows a human—” he spoke the word as though he were not “—to spell-cast like one of the fey folk.”
That produced an explosion of indistinguishable chatter. Raelen turned to study the king’s face for a sign of what the man was thinking. It was something of a guessing game Raelen had developed early on in his childhood in order to gauge his father’s moods, and know just how much he could get away with. His father hadn’t known they were playing, but even so, he had proved a challenging opponent. Even after a decade, Raelen could only guess correctly one out of every three times.
This time he guessed that his father’s awe at Loeadon’s revelation had snuffed out the king’s mounting displeasure. Raelen was also certain his father was entertaining a thousand possibilities of what the circlet and the book could mean for Aiestal; an unending production of new weapon talises, and even a fleet of airships. Loeadon had gambled with his life, but it appeared the gamble had paid off.
His father’s look changed–lowering brow, tightening jaw, and eyes that stared straight ahead as if into the future. That meant that the gross disregard for the solemnity of his court was again stirring his irritation. He cleared his throat and again the room immediately fell silent.
“I do not recall seeing it when we found The White Hawk.” The king reached out and Loeadon handed the circlet to him directly, bypassing an aggravated looking chamberlain.
“Nor does it appear in the ledgers of the original cataloging.”
The king looked up at him. “How is this?”
Loeadon bobbed another obsequious half-bow. “As I said, a gift from the goddess in our time of need.”
“Or one of your men simply overlooked it.”
The smile faded from Loeadon’s face, and he quickly bobbed his head in acceptance. Raelen inwardly chuckled. It had been an admirable attempt.
“Navarch Pariel.” Raelen’s father turned to look on the armored soldier. The man had a perfectly professional blank soldier’s look on his face.
He is also a hard one to read. Perhaps he had found a new player for his secret game.
“How long before Isara commits to a true offensive?”
“Impossible to say,” Pariel replied. “A year perhaps? Sooner if we do nothing to strike back now.”
The king nodded to himself as if he were confirming a thought. He then turned again to Loeadon. The man’s self-satisfied expression was gone, replaced by one of nervous uncertainty. “Loeadon, how long would it take to puzzle out how to create a plague box?”
A plague box? Those were horrific weapon talises credited in the histories with inflicting immeasurable death and sorrow. Not a terribly effective weapon as their range was limited, and human immune systems apparently adapted quickly to the sickness, but they were nasty things.
Loeadon’s eyes darted to the tome still held by the chamberlain, and then at Pariel. “Such a work of talis-craft would be very complex. We were planning on starting with something a little simpler, like a flame ring or a shield amulet.”
“Can you do it?” the king asked evenly, with the subtle undercurrent of an ultimatum.
Loeadon hesitated and then bobbed his head. “I believe so.”
“How long will it take?” the king demanded.
Again Loeadon looked like he was standing on the very edge of a cliff, looking down at a thousand foot drop. “Perhaps six months.”
“You have four weeks,” the king said. “I want to be ready to strike at the heart of Haeshala should Isara respond with a full-scale assault.”
Loeadon’s face drained of color. “Yes, Highness,” The polymath bowed.
The king leaned forward in his throne and stared at another soldier in the group. This one was much older than Pariel, with long, white hair and a polished chest plate that likely hadn’t seen battle in twenty years. The man was Osarr Rakahnas, Aiestal’s supreme military commander.
“Polemarch,” the king addressed Rakahnas.
“Yes, Highness.” The old soldier straightened and adopted the blank look Pariel had been showing.
“Isara’s insult cannot go unanswered. I want you to order three banners of infantry, two squads of knights, and our flame casters to march to the Haeshala border.”
“Secure the border? Of course, Your Highness. I will begin–”
“No, Osarr,” the king cut in. “I want you to lay waste to all Haeshalan towns along the border, and make certain each town is burned so that nothing remains save a smoldering ruin. We will pay Haeshala back in kind.”
“Yes, Highness,” Rakahnas replied.
“And Osarr,” the king added, “leave only one witness, a man able to carry the tidings to Isara.”
Isara let our people retreat! Raelen clenched his teeth to stop himself from blurting out the thought. He caught Gryyth’s eyes, and the bear-man bowed his head as if to say “this was not Seiro.”
The settlements on the border would likely be made up of merchants and farmers–and their wives and children. And Raelen’s father would slaughter them all. In spite of this, Raelen knew that his father, hard hearted though he was, was not a cruel man. His order to kill the people of the Haeshalan border towns was likely not to satisfy a sadistic need for blood.
No, it would be simple calculation. His father didn’t see the people as anything more than capital. In the king’s eyes, it was simple: Isara stole from him, and so he would seize re-payment–with interest.
Raelen fought back the sick feeling rising into his throat. The etiquette of his father’s court would certainly be flouted if he were to vomit in front of the assembly just seconds after the king gave a distasteful order. He mentally chanted one of Gryyth’s meditation mantras.
I am a clear brook flowing among the trees.
I am a meadow of clover in summer.
I am the moon silently watching the night.
It had the effect of driving back his nausea, but not his anger.
Raelen clenched his teeth and trained his gaze on Loeadon. He stared hard at the polymath and was surprised at what looked like a slight smirk on the man’s otherwise ashen face.
Ezra studied the charred boards of the Imarin docks. He was trying to sift through the rumors and piece together what really had happened here two days ago, but needed to be careful asking direct questions. Else he’d draw the attention of the city guard, who were all still on high alert.
Some of the people said the excitement and destruction were the work of a man possessed with a demon and that he could throw fire and was untouchable. Others spoke of a gigantic glass statue that moved as though it were alive, tearing up the streets and wreaking havoc. The story of the demon was clearly an exaggerated description of Kaul, but the giant?
Ridiculous. Just the tale-telling of drunk sailors and bored goodwives.
“Maybe that’s where the goodwives heard the tale,” Irvis said with a wink when Ezra had voiced the thought earlier. “Maybe they weren’t such good wives.” The comment was laughably incongruous with the chubby man’s new set of monk robes. Why did he insist on procuring new ones? He’d left the order, hadn’t he?
No, Kaul was definitely here, and if the gossip of the guards was true, he was dead. That rumor really troubled Ezra; there was only one weapon that could’ve slain Kaul while that madman possessed so many powerful talises.
The sword.
Jekaran could onl
y have survived a duel with Kaul if he’d fought with the sword. Irvis had already told Ezra how Jekaran came to bond the sword, and how he had used it to escape Gymal’s well-finder camp, but if his nephew had used it again… How many times did Ezra use the weapon before it began to take over?
It was the third time.
Ezra–no, Argentus–had been competing for a thousand gold Aies in an illegal dueling tournament. After going undefeated for several matches, he was challenged by a renowned sword master so skilled, the only way he’d been able to defeat him was by giving the sword what it demanded–his will.
Doing so had turned him into an eagerly efficient killer, and he ended up not only spilling the blood of his opponent, but of all the man’s allies, and then the other contestants in the arena. And the killing hadn’t stopped there.
No! He shoved the memory back down. Not right now. He hadn’t dared revisit the details of what had happened that night. Even remembering as far as he just had made him want to vomit. Although he recoiled from the locked memory, something seemed to urge him to remember.
He’d always thought it was Rasheera’s spirit trying to help him face what he’d done, and sometimes it actually did feel like there was someone whispering to his mind. He shook his head as if the rattling of his brain would realign his thoughts.
“Argentus?” Irvis asked.
Ezra looked up at his old friend, his cheeks feeling flushed. He quickly looked back at the ground to hide his embarrassment. “He was here.”
“Kaul?” Irvis asked. “Well, we knew that.”
“No,” Ezra said softly, “My nephew.”
Irvis’ meaty hand rested on his shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Argentus.”
The Lure of Fools Page 31