Blood of the Tallan (The Petralist Book 7)

by Frank Morin

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Hamish, of course. Do you really want to know how he was storing it?”

  She laughed and grabbed the little fork. “Don’t you dare. I will not let you eat this cake alone.”

  Aifric’s heart raced faster than her legs as she hurried through the palace of Crann. Her palms were sweating, and she found it hard to breathe. Loud chatter from all of her mind sisters made it hard to focus. Usually they left the one controlling their body unrestricted access to all of their senses, but now all of them were tugging for fractions, wanting to see and hear and feel for themselves.

  “We’ll all have a chance,” Student Eighteen chided, but she didn’t cede ground to the others.

  “I don’t see why Aifric gets to drive,” Cacilia pouted.

  “We all agreed,” Student Eighteen reminded her, triggering another round of the argument that had kept them up half the night. Aifric barely believed she’d convinced enough of them to win the vote, but she wasn’t about to get drawn back into the argument and maybe get voted out again. Their mission was far too important.

  She reached the right door, set into the wood-paneled wall of the plush hallway. With shaking fingers, she knocked, waiting breathlessly for the long seconds before the door opened.

  Kilian greeted her with a smile that helped ease her worries, but also increased her tension. He wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up almost to the elbows and the top two buttons undone. He hadn’t shaved yet, and his hair was tousled more than usual. She had to resist the urge to reach up and run her fingers through it.

  “I’m glad you stopped by,” he said, gesturing her into the suite he’d commandeered from Lord Eoghan. “When do you leave?”

  “Soon,” she said, trying to calm herself. This was easy, just a simple conversation. “Rosslyn’s troops are ready, and Ailsa is heading for the docks. We’ll slide downriver to Belmullet, then head up to Donleavy.”

  “I still think she should take one of the Battalions,” Kilian said as they entered his sitting room.

  “It would make for a grand entrance, but I think she’s right. It might give her opponents too much leverage to claim she’s only a pawn of the insurrection,” she said. “Besides, that summoning you and Connor made is incredible. Even if someone wanted to risk attacking her, despite Rosslyn and her troops watching over her, they’ll think twice before messing with that thing.”

  “Connor named it Knuckles,” Kilian said with a happy smile. “He might have lost most of his affinities, but Connor took summoning to a whole new level. That thing’s a piece of art.”

  “The name’s perfect,” she agreed. With Kilian’s help, Connor had fashioned a hulking man-shaped autonomous summoned creature. Instead of simply using clay to form the body, he’d used half a ton of molten steel. They’d used water to give it life, but Connor had added some kind of high-level energy that made it far stronger. Its metal body would be immune to normal weapons, and Verena had added copious amounts of pumice, quickened just enough to make the creature virtually impervious to elemental tampering.

  True to its name, the creature had extra-long arms with hands bigger than most people’s heads. Its knuckles were as wide as many men’s chests. She shuddered to think of the damage it could cause if Ailsa decided to let it loose. Connor had included far more complex instructions for the creature, guaranteeing it could identify threats to Ailsa and respond accordingly, as well as making it accept her voice commands.

  Jean was already pestering Connor to make time to meet with her and Render flight to discuss ways to incorporate his new breakthroughs into their semi-autonomous creations.

  Kilian leaned against the mantel over the cold hearth, studying her in a way that made her suddenly nervous. “So you stopped by to say good-bye?” he asked with a little smile. They hadn’t discussed that surprise kiss during the battle, although the ladies had debated the subject endlessly.

  “Don’t waste our time with smalltalk,” Hemma urged, trying to clench their fists. Aifric pushed her back and whispered, “Stop interrupting, and I won’t.”

  “We have a problem. Student Eighteen has been asked to accept leadership of the Mhortair and become the first-ever Mistress One.”

  Student Eighteen made a very girlish squeaking sound that Aifric only barely managed to suppress. It was such an enormous honor, one that could change their lives. Even though they’d promised to let her do the talking, Student Eighteen stepped into the control position. She was the first, so she could overrule the others if she needed to.

  “Hey!” Aifric cried as she stumbled back into the shared mindspace with her other sisters.

  “I’ll give it back in a minute,” Student Eighteen promised. “This bit is about me, though.”

  She had a point, but Aifric didn’t like it.

  “It’s also about all of us,” Isabell said, looking more nervous than Aifric had ever seen. They were all nervous, all excited, clustering close together, intently listening and watching.

  “And what did you say?” Kilian asked gently, his expression impossible to read.

  “I plan to help my people in every way I can. We need to redefine our entire purpose, and I’m honored by the opportunity, but I’m not sure if I should accept the title.”

  “Why not?” Somehow Aifric sensed he knew exactly why they’d come, but he let them get to the point on their own. Wise decision.

  “That depends,” Student Eighteen said, and Aifric rushed forward, taking control again. Student Eighteen released it reluctantly, but a promise was a promise, and Aifric was the first who had dared to really believe. Aifric’s pulse raced as she stepped closer to Kilian, staring deep into those amazing eyes with their flickers of distant light, tempting her to keep staring and never look away.

  “Depends on what?” He asked with that little half smile she adored.

  “On how you react to this,” Aifric said, taking a step closer and reaching for him.

  “Go get him!” Camonica hollered, and all of her other mind sisters clamored encouragement as Aifric pulled his head down and kissed him.

  Kilian wrapped her in his arms and kissed her back. He was a really good kisser too. Her entire body thrummed with joy. She barely believed he was accepting her, accepting them. She wanted to shriek with joy, but clung to him, not wanting to break away ever.

  Except she needed to give her sisters a chance, so within seconds, Student Eighteen took her place, followed by Camonica, then each of the others. Despite the quiver in their lips with every transition and the slight adjustments to stance and grip, Kilian did not relent, but kissed her until they all got a chance to rotate through.

  In their shared mind space, Aifric fanned herself, feeling flushed. She had only lived for a few years, and had assumed their unique mind configuration would always prevent them from finding a man capable of winning all of their hearts. Her sisters stood close, expressions ranging from exultant to astonished, to overjoyed. She wasn’t the only one blushing. Timid Eystri looked ready to burst, her face so red Aifric worried she might need to lie down for a while.

  When he finally released them, Student Eighteen held the control position. Her face was flushing in a very non-Mhortair-assassin-ish way, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t seem to stop grinning as much as Aifric.

  “What do you say now?” Kilian asked with a smile, and she was happy to see he seemed a bit breathless too.

  “I say life just got very interesting.”

  71

  Some People Get Exactly What They Deserve

  Connor stepped through the gilded double doors into the spectacular throne room above the palace of Donleavy with Verena by his side. He felt a little nervous, and adjusted his finely tailored suit.

  “Relax. Everything will go smoothly,” Verena whispered, but he sensed tension under her calm exterior. Although she again wore that gorgeous dress she’d used at Anika’s wedding, she’d included a rather large purse in her ensemble. It matched much better
than her leather satchel, but he bet it included a lot of power stone, just in case. And maybe one of Hamish’s small side-arm speedslings.

  “I hope so,” he whispered as they moved into the domed hall with its translucent floor. He needn’t have bothered whispering with the Mealt Falls thundering just behind the huge throne on the far side of the room.

  The sight of all of that water made Connor sad. Even though six months had passed since he’d defeated Queen Dreokt, not a day went by that he didn’t miss his connections to his elemental affinities, particularly water.

  The room was packed with high lords and ladies, military officers, nobility, and palace officials. Everyone who felt they had any say in crowning a new monarch had petitioned to attend. In addition to all of the Obrioners, a dozen of the highest ranking Guardians were in attendance, all of them senior officers in the revolution, recently dubbed the Freedom army.

  Connor was happy to see them, but wondered how the negotiations would resolve the prickly question. With Queen Dreokt gone, no heir declared, and with King Turriff and his entire household rendered mindless, who should take the throne?

  Kilian was an obvious choice, and he was in attendance, standing closer to the throne, for once looking every inch a prince of Obrion in a rich blue doublet over a creamy white shirt. Aifric stood beside him, looking gorgeous in a red velvet dress that showed off her excellent figure.

  Ivor and Shona stood near them, both dressed as high nobility. General Wolfram and Anton flanked them, representing Grandurian interests. Fyodor stood in for the Arishat League. In the months since Lady Briet’s death, he had proved as good an administrator as he was a researcher.

  Evander stood next to him, the solid Sentry body he now possessed projecting the same exceptional presence he always had, even though now he was so much smaller. Hamish and Jean had already arrived too. She looked resplendent as always in her understated grandeur, and even Hamish had cleaned up, wearing a fashionable Grandurian suit. As the intended to the famous Lady Jean, he sometimes had to look the part.

  Connor glanced around as they took their places near their friends. The room was packed, but he sensed little animosity. More a sense of impending excitement. The throne had never been open for claiming like this, and every high house seemed eager to push their candidate.

  Several had already tried. As Ailsa had anticipated, High Lord Feichin had attempted to seize power. He had resisted her arrival, very nearly sparking a civil war right in Donleavy. Luckily, Ailsa’s leverage had proven sufficient to sway several of the key players. Rosslyn and her army had convinced most of the others, and Knuckles had taken care of the one fool who tried the direct approach at opposing Ailsa.

  Apparently Knuckles had been even more enthusiastic than Connor had planned for, and High Lord Feichin had agreed to step down even before that spectacular mess had been cleaned up. All parties had agreed to follow Ailsa until the formal decision for the monarchy was decided.

  Guardians across the realm had revolted, and that had threatened to turn every major city into battlefields. As Ailsa predicted, the high nobility families were stuck between the need to adjust to reality and the threat posed to them by the queen’s tampering with their children’s minds.

  They’d eagerly accepted her proposed solution to that quandary and clamored for Connor and Student Eighteen to come free their children. The additional promise of eventually restoring Sentries and Firetongues had reinforced her position as temporary regent even more. Connor was glad he’d been able to help. He’d sacrificed so much to defeat Queen Dreokt, he’d felt unsettled and unsure of who he was. He’d smashed so many affinities, but luckily still retained chert. With Student Eighteen’s help, he had indeed managed to enter the minds of scores of people, find the queen’s concealed orders, and remove them. It was tricky work, and the focused effort had been a much-needed project to help him transition to his new reality.

  Even then, some of the nobility had sought ways to conspire and turn the unstable situation to their benefit. The threat of Rory and Anika leading twenty thousand bash fighters on flying Battalions to knock down their city quelled any serious insurrection, though. So now everyone was gathered to propose the new monarch and lobby for their favorite candidate. Connor dearly hoped the plan worked, because if it didn’t they could still face a costly civil war, invasion from Granadure, or both.

  Aunt Ailsa, dressed in a simple but elegant gown of soft blue stepped up to the dais, but did not sit on the throne. Her chief of staff banged his brass-capped staff onto the quartzite floor three times. The echoing reports cut through the chatter and called the meeting to order.

  “Thank you all for coming. This is a momentous day, a singular opportunity to choose the future direction of our country,” Ailsa said, her calm voice echoing without enhancement around the room. The acoustics of the place were amazing. She glanced around the room, her serious, green-eyed gaze holding each person in turn.

  Everyone drew a little closer, eager to get negotiations started. Ailsa added, “I encourage you all to keep an open mind during our negotiations. War has darkened our halls for many months, but we now stand at the threshold to a better future. Let us step beyond our fears and focus instead upon the great opportunity within our grasp. Too few ever stand upon such a momentous day, and it is my hope that we all will recognize our singular privilege. For the good of our nation, let us unite in choosing the one who can lead us in peace and begin to heal the rifts that have threatened to destroy Obrion as we know it.”

  That was a moving speech, and Connor hoped everyone was listening. If negotiations fell apart, things could get ugly. The fighting wouldn’t last long, though. Shona, Ivor, and Rory had brought ten thousand troops with them from Merkland, and ten Battalions hovered over the city.

  “The floor is open for proposals for this body to consider,” Ailsa declared.

  Connor expected every high house to begin clamoring for their right to take the throne, and most of the assembled nobility looked prepared to do just that. Aifric called out first. “Why don’t you take the throne, Ailsa? You’re abundantly qualified, universally respected, and already recognized as a fair and just ruler.”

  Ailsa acknowledged the compliment with a little nod as murmurs rippled through the crowd. Not surprisingly, most of the nobility clearly disliked the idea, while the Guardians and foreigners loved it.

  High Lord Feichin, standing beside his daughter, General Rosslyn, voiced the contrary opinion. “We all acknowledge the excellent job you’ve done as temporary regent, but I’m afraid my house would have to oppose your elevation as queen. Your close proximity as one of Queen Dreokt’s advisors leaves unresolved doubts regarding the integrity of your mind and your ability to rule.”

  If only he knew she had run the counter-espionage ring that had helped the revolution, providing them with critical intelligence that directly contributed to the queen’s downfall. Other high houses echoed those comments, bolstering High Lord Feichin’s prestige. He was one of the best-positioned candidates, despite his earlier failed coup attempt.

  Connor found it odd that those same high lords and ladies who used the excuse of Ailsa’s close proximity to the queen as grounds to bar her candidacy seemed to forget that High Lord Feichin had also served as one of the queen’s counselors. Hypocrisy seemed to grow in equal measure with power, but he’d never understood why.

  As arguments began to rise between different delegates, Ailsa raised her hand for quiet and said, “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I have no desire to rule. I am a sculptress and I have been absent from my workroom far too long already.”

  Verena smiled and whispered, “Besides, if she was queen, who would she plot against?”

  Connor fought to suppress a chuckle. He doubted Ailsa would ever lack for things to do.

  With her gracious withdrawal from consideration, High Lord Feichin immediately spoke up. “In these difficult times, we need strong leadership from one with experience to see us through the ha
rd times.”

  “Then that can’t be you, Feichin,” Lord Eoghan joked to a round of soft laughter, laced with steel.

  Eoghan and his wife, Fenella, had indeed been plotting intricate negotiations. Fenella was a shrewd as she was beautiful, and they had positioned Eoghan as the main opponent to Feichin. Eoghan was King Turriff’s cousin, lord over the critical metropolis of Crann, and he leveraged those advantages masterfully.

  “I have better credentials than you, Eoghan,” Feichin responded icily.

  Other high lords and ladies started calling out support for both contenders, but Kilian interrupted. “You’re both pretty, but neither of you, nor any sitting high lord or lady will do as our next ruler.”

  That smoothly made him the object of all of their anger. He didn’t seem to mind, but added, “You’ve both been part of the problem for too long. You lack the flexibility needed to face the new reality of Guardians free of patronage. They need a place in Obrion outside of traditional houses, and none of you have the skills to pull that off without plunging this nation into civil war.”

  He was absolutely right, and that infuriated them. High Lord Feichin snapped, “Don’t think you can slip in and take the crown either, lord Kilian.” He filled the title with abundant scorn, and Connor seriously considered asking Verena to punch him through the far windows. See if Rosslyn loved him enough to rescue him from the waters before he struck the bottom.

  Not to be outdone by his rival, Lord Eoghan said, “You may be descended from the original royal blood, but you renounced your claim centuries ago.”

  Kilian laughed. “I don’t want the throne, but I’m here to make sure the right person gets it.” His smile turned predatory and his eyes glowed blue, with little waves dancing in them. Not even those high lords could ignore an icy stare from Kilian, and they both lost some of their bluster. Luckily Water didn’t sabotage Kilian’s display that time.