“What was that?” he choked out.
“Spirit eck,” the Vorakk said, its smile now returned.
“It’s disgusting!” Jove said.
The words had scarcely left his mouth when the lizard man charged, swinging its right claw down to rake Jove across the face. It didn’t hurt, but the sensation of the numb flesh of his cheek being parted by sharp claws was disconcerting. The Vorakk hissed and drew back, cradling the claw he’d struck with, a look of utter shock on its lizard face. Jove glanced at the hand and saw that it had withered and was breaking apart into a cloud of ash drifting away on the night wind.
He grinned at the Vorakk and wondered what it was going to taste like. The creature cowered back and clutched its stump, a glowing green liquid spilling from its wound. Then, before Jove had a chance to manifest one of his tendrils, the Vorakk vanished, a trail of luminescent blood leading away from him.
Jove was about to follow, but he was so close to the Apeira well he could taste the energy it was radiating. He turned and began moving up the street and toward the palace, toward his prize.
Raelen didn’t slow or stop for the monk’s ministrations. The scrawny little man huffed, and muttered in frustration, but never overtly complained. Raelen toyed with the idea of breaking into a jog, just to urge the monk to move faster, but one did not treat the goddess’ servants that way–even when they deserved it. Tingling, and then feeling rushed back into his shoulder causing him to flinch from the pain as the puncture wound from Loeadon’s shard of ice knitted closed.
He ground his teeth. That treacherous snake may not have directly caused his father’s death, but he was as much to blame as was the boy, Jekaran. It still galled Raelen that he couldn’t join in the hunt for farm boy. But now that he’d had a few moments to overcome his rage, he knew it was for the best. He still didn’t quite know what to make of his sudden feelings of love and grief for his father. If someone had told him he’d feel this way a week prior, he would’ve laughed at the notion. But there it was.
He still wasn’t sure he could forgive the man for what he’d done to Saranna, or their mother, but he would make sure the king was laid to rest with all the honor due a ruler of Aiestal. Despite all of his father’s faults, and their dysfunctional relationship, he did love the man. After all, he was Raelen’s father.
Raelen and his entourage–Gryyth, the Rasheeran monk, one of the ranking generals, and two dozen members of his honor guard–rounded a corner into a hallway that ended with a smooth metal door, one with no visible seams or handles. It wasn’t really a door. It was the portion of the massive vault talis that hadn’t been walled away by the ivory palace architecture.
As they neared the vault, Raelen touched an object that was hanging around his neck by a leather thong. It was star-shaped with an amethyst jewel in its center–the vault key. He’d fetched it from his father’s study, hoping to find Pariel in the process, but there had been no sign of the man. The key was still there, so he hadn’t yet gone to the vault, so where was he? Had he been caught sneaking into the king’s apartment? Raelen wanted to keep looking for his loyal Navarch, but he needed the oath collar in order to find out which member of his father’s court was the Allosian warmonger in disguise.
“Open,” Raelen commanded.
The smooth surface of the door appeared to liquefy, and then pull back like a silver curtain. The liquid metal disappeared into the door’s frame, revealing a room to rival the size of the palace’s largest audience chamber; one that could easily accommodate twenty thousand spectators. Glass shelves arranged in narrow aisles ran the length of the room, most apparently empty. This had been one of the fabled talis stores of the Allosians once, before the city was conquered by Raelen’s ancestors.
The fey peoples had made off with half their hoard before the palace fell, and most of what was left was awarded to supporters who would become the progenitors of Aiestal’s nobility leaving a mere pittance in comparison. Still, what remained was probably the most valuable collection of rare and powerful talises in all of Shaelar.
Raelen led his entourage into the vault, and then turned to the captain of his honor guard. “Inquire at the catalog talis.” He motioned at a globe on a plinth a dozen feet to his right. “And locate the oath collar talis.”
Traggert saluted and moved off.
Raelen watched as the man went about his work. He was startled when the scrawny little monk said, “You are now healed, your highness.”
Raelen had forgotten he was there. He supposed the man was used to that on account of his small stature. “Yes, thank you, Brother Yimin.”
The monk made a perfunctory bow before turning to leave.
“Brother Yimin,” Raelen called.
The monk audibly sighed, slumped his shoulders, and turned back. “Yes, highness?”
“After you heal my Ursaj, see to it that Master Loeadon is healed. You’ll find him being escorted to the dungeon.”
The monk’s eyebrows drew up and his forlorn expression vanished. “Sire?”
“I want him in perfect health when I execute him.”
The monk nodded sharply, and Raelen thought the man was hiding a smile, but he couldn’t be certain. Raelen turned and walked toward one of the vault’s tall glass shelves. When he reached it, he produced the casting crown from within his torn shirt and placed it on the shelf at eye level.
A ring of soft glowing light appeared on the shelf beneath the crown, indicating it was being cataloged by the talis that inventoried the contents of the vault. It was a remarkable piece of Allosian craftsmanship, unique to the palace as far as Raelen knew. It was also the largest talis he knew of, the hundreds of feet of glass shelving actually a part of the catalog talis itself.
Raelen sighed, beginning a mental list of which nobles to test first. He ground his teeth. He’d been so certain Loeadon was the Allosian. All signs pointed to it: the man’s sudden rise to power, his secretive behavior, his conspiracy to take the sword talis from his father. How could Raelen have been so wrong, and who then really was the traitor?
Another idea struck him: what if the Allosian wasn’t masquerading as a nobleman? What if he was passing himself off as a servant? But that didn’t make any sense. While pretending to be a servant would be advantageous for spying, the Allosian would need authority to shape the decisions of the king and others. He’d have to be someone important enough to be included in councils, but not a person people knew well, else they become suspicious. He supposed that’s why the Allosian hadn’t replaced his father in person. Looking like someone was completely different from speaking and acting like them. Raelen would’ve known if his father had been replaced, and the Allosian would need to be free to come and go at will. Again, that had fit Loeadon so perfectly.
“My prince!” Traggert called and Raelen didn’t like the note of alarm in the man’s voice. Something was wrong.
He scanned the crystalline shelves and found the general jogging out of an aisle near the far wall. He was joined by two members of the honor guard emerging from neighboring aisles. Raelen didn’t wait for the man to reach him, but strode forward to meet him.
“What’s wrong?” Raelen snapped.
“It’s gone, your highness.”
“What?”
“The oath collar. The catalog said it was removed, and so we ran to check. Sure enough, it is gone.”
“But how? The vault key was still in my father’s drawer and nothing was disturbed.” Raelen shot a glance at the catalog talis and sprinted toward the crystal orb hovering over the plinth. It touched his mind before he even came to a stop.
How may I assist you? It asked telepathically.
“Tell me who last inquired of the location of the oath collar!” he said, not bothering to respond mentally.
Sorias Traggert.
“No!” Raelen shouted. “Before him.”
Jenoc of Allose.
There was another who fit all of Raelen’s criteria for the imposter. Another man no one k
new well, and who had enough clout to be included in important councils. A man so loyal that he’d had Raelen’s complete trust. A man who’d fueled Raelen’s suspicions of Loeadon. A man Raelen had ordered to steal his father’s vault key so they could retrieve the oath collar–someone who couldn’t risk being unveiled by that talis.
“Divine Mother,” Raelen exhaled. “It’s Pariel!”
Jenoc hefted the medium sized, black-lacquered wood box onto a shelf in the cargo hold of the Ivory Eagle, next to a parcel that contained the oath collar. He couldn’t very well leave such an important artifact behind, it being one of the original pieces of Allosian talis craft. Not like this plague box. It was an ugly thing, made of all the wrong materials and utilitarian in its design.
Not like the talises his people were famed for producing. They had been as much works of art as they had been talis-craft. But the plague box would serve its purpose. Perhaps if he’d had more opportunity and time he might have been able to at least engrave a stylish design on the box, but he’d only been able to work on the talis by sneaking into Loeadon’s laboratory. Sometimes that gave him hours, other times it gave him minutes. He had to be very careful, for if someone caught Navarch Pariel working spell-castings, he would be exposed.
Skulking about the human sorcerer’s chamber had delivered Jenoc another remarkable boon of good fortune, the opportunity to overhear Loeadon plotting against the king. That had been perfect as the prince was already suspicious of the man, and Loeadon’s secretive behavior naturally perpetuated those suspicions. Jenoc hadn’t needed to do much to focus the prince on Loeadon. Fate had done it for him. If Apeiron did have a will and guided them, as Kairah claimed, did this not mean that it was aiding Jenoc? Was this not another sign his cause was just?
Even with all of his setbacks; the arrival of his sister and the delivering of her warning, the human girl with the compulsion ring unmasking him, and finally the prince’s plan to use the oath collar to detect him, his goals were about to be realized. Now all he needed to do was give the humans one final nudge, and the talis war would begin.
He smiled at the plague box. Although ugly, its function was something of an achievement for Jenoc. He’d never crafted one before but was still able to improve upon the design he found in the instructional tome. Most plague boxes could only cause disease in a small radius, perhaps up to a mile. Jenoc’s would emit the sickness for ten. He’d also been able to craft in a particularly vicious clause that would make the box afflict only children under five years of age. The disease would be painful too. A high fever followed by sharp stomach cramps, uncontrollable dysentery, bleeding from major orifices–all concluding with slow and painful suffocation.
Nothing enraged a creature like watching its offspring suffer and die by the deliberate actions of another. And the humans of Haeshala would know who took away their little ones. That had been why Jenoc painted two swords crossed over an Apeira well on the box’s face–the symbol of the king’s house, and the crest of Aiestal. The humans of Haeshala would know where the box came from, and they would be so drunk with grief and fury they’d commit their entire force to avenging their children. How convenient that an Aiestali army was already marching toward their country.
Pain exploded in Jenoc’s head, and he stumbled, very nearly falling to the deck of the airship. He froze, keeping himself upright by leaning on the wall as he clenched his eyes shut and sucked in deep, ragged breaths. His headache was a continual thing now, rising and falling in intensity. He pressed two fingers against his temple until the blinding lights in his vision faded and the sharp agony was replaced by a lesser, though constant pain.
If his only affliction was the headache, Jenoc wouldn’t be concerned. But there was another symptom that worsened in tandem with his ever-increasing migraines; a weakening of his ability to hold Apeiron and spell-cast. That had caused him to nearly drop his illusory disguise on several occasions, and severely limit his access to the Four Disciplines.
Weeks ago, he’d been able to hold over a dozen separate spells simultaneously across multiple Disciplines. Now it was all he could do to maintain his disguise, and a few sensory enhancements. He hadn’t even been able to translocate the plague box up to the airship. He’d had to carry it to the top of the east turret himself. Jenoc had only been able to teleport in and out of the talis vault by dropping his likeness of Navarch Pariel, something that was, unfortunately, witnessed by a palace maid. Soon they would find her badly beaten body. He had to hurry.
Jenoc winced as he attempted to move. Something was wrong with him; there was no denying that now. And he could no longer explain away the fact it had started after he had experimented with the other magic. Well, he would have plenty of time to worry about that when he returned to Allose. He’d have to rely on the human’s love for conflict to draw in the third nation of Shaelar–Maes Tol. It would happen, he was certain of it, though he might’ve been able to bring it about sooner had he the strength to go there himself, but he’d just have to be patient.
Jenoc inhaled deeply, letting go of the wall now that the throbbing in his head had decreased again to a manageable level. There was but one more thing for him to do before flying out of Aiestal. He had to rescue Kairah.
Tyrus swept down the hallway, shooting glances over his shoulder, around any alcove, or into connecting halls. He couldn’t be seen doing this, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself from keeping vigil in one of the palace towers, deliberately overlooking the courtyard’s south exit. That was where Hort was supposed to have snuck Jekaran out over an hour ago.
Clearly something had gone wrong, but Tyrus wasn’t content to wait for news from the guards or goddess forbid, the king. He needed to know now! Perhaps there would even still be time to salvage his plan. He was a fool for worrying about being spotted on his way to the dungeons. If Hort were arrested, he was certain the mercenary man wouldn’t hesitate to implicate him as designing the jailbreak. It was likely over for Tyrus and his house. Oddly, those dark fears were overshadowed by his worry for Jekaran’s safety.
The Rasheeran monks taught that if a person was virtuous enough, they could win a chance to rescue a soul from eternal damnation. Kybon had been a womanizer, and Tyrus had always strived to be orthodox in his obedience to the will of the Divine Mother. So, he had always planned on using the boon promised the faithful to get Kybon out of where he certainly had ended up. Tyrus had always been the one to get Kybon out of trouble, and now he was doing the same for his cousin’s son.
If I get caught and executed, then I’m leaving your soul in hell, cousin!
He hurried down the slanting path–the palace had no stairs–and eventually descended to the floor upon which the king had built his dungeon. Tyrus froze when he entered the hall feeding into the dungeon proper. There, sprawled out on the floor, was Hort. He quickly scanned the hallway but found no sign of Jekaran or guards. What had happened?
He ran over to Hort and strained as he lifted the mercenary from the floor, and set him against the wall in a sitting position. The man moaned softly as he cracked open an eyelid. “Lord Gymal?”
Hort put a hand to the side of his head and groaned.
“Mercenary!” Tyrus shook the big man. “What happened?”
“He attacked me! Put me out with that stunning talis of yours.” Hort looked down at his pants. “Ah, hell. I pissed myself!”
Tyrus shook the man again. “Where is Jekaran?”
Hort started to shake his head, but stopped sharply with a grimace. “That damned thing leaves a headache worse than a night of soaking up over-proofed Haeshalan whisky!”
“Jekaran!” Tyrus shouted.
Hort winced at the sound but didn’t complain. “He started putting up a fuss about rescuing that Allosian woman, and so like you said to do, I stunned him. He went down and was out, so I slung him over my shoulder. Next thing I know, he’s awake and attacking me. He got the stun baton away from me and rammed it into my neck.”
“He’s going
after her.” Tyrus stood and began searching for his stun talis. It lay on the floor against the opposite wall. He strode over and scooped it up, then looked at Hort, who was slowly rising. “Come on!”
“What?” Hort said as he squinted and massaged both of his temples.
“Your job’s not finished!”
“He’s out of control. I think that sword talis is controlling him again.”
That made Tyrus nauseous. “Well, we have to try!”
“Try what?” Hort was standing up straight now.
“To get him away from this place,” Tyrus said. He turned and began striding up the inclining corridor, but stopped as Hort grabbed his arm.
“If he’s under that damned sword’s spell, he won’t hesitate to kill us if we try to grab him. I know, I’ve fought him, and if it weren’t for his little girlfriend, the buzzards would be feasting on my eyeballs right now. And what makes you think that he hasn’t already been discovered by a guard? Going after the boy could mean a death sentence for both of us.”
Tyrus jerked his arm out of Hort’s grip. “I have to save him!”
“Why?” Hort shot back.
“Because he’s my kin!” Tyrus shouted. “Now are you going to obey me or are you breaking our contract?”
Hort sighed. “I’ll help you get him out. Damn me for a fool, but I’ll do it.” The big man flashed a smile. “I like him, and I’d hate to see him cut down before he has a chance…to become a man.”
Tyrus noticed a catch in Hort’s voice when he spoke those last words. Odd that. He acknowledged the mercenary’s compliance with a curt nod, and the two began jogging up the inclining hallway toward the upper levels of the palace.
Jekaran sliced through the chest plate of the guard trying to spear him. He’d intentionally restrained the force of his swing so that his blade only cut through the armor, and perhaps a little into the man’s skin. Holding back to avoid lethal force nearly cost him a bolt to the head, but the sword’s magic quickened his reflexes and he leaned back just in time to see the fletched metal shaft pass in front of his eyes.
The Lure of Fools Page 48