The King's Craft (The Petralist Book 6)

by Frank Morin

  A brown storm of sand materialized around the pylon and within seconds consumed it, melting it away to nothing.

  Ivor whirled back to face Connor, his expression offended. “Hey, no fair.”

  “I thought you were supposed to stop me,” Connor said, projecting calm confidence, although internally he was still groaning.

  Ilse chuckled. “I’m not sure that exactly fits the parameters, but some part of you definitely reached that pylon.”

  Ivor released his elements and sighed. “You owe me a duel, Connor.”

  “Gladly. But you might owe me a lot more.”

  “How so?” Ivor asked, drawing closer, instantly intrigued by the discussion of debts.

  “Well, the way I see it, I won you a debt from Aifric and saved you public humiliation in front of all the Arishat League officials. Your account is adding up fast.”

  Ivor laughed. “Aifric’s debt is on her, and humiliation is a strong word.”

  “I guess we’ll never know. Another duel is a good idea. Later,” Connor said.

  Ilse extended a hand and hauled him to his feet. “Clever use of your affinities, Connor. I approve.”

  He grinned at her. “It helps that I have such interesting friends.”

  She slid them north on a platform of earth toward the crowd of onlookers, and Connor gratefully let her manage it. He wondered again if the new lord of Schwinkendorf was concealed among the watchers. Had he seen Connor fall? Connor didn’t like that idea, especially if it encouraged the new lord, whoever they were, to think him weak and easy to push around. He’d be severely disappointed if he tried. Connor wasn’t Grandurian so did not owe official allegiance to any Grandurian lord.

  He hoped the new appointee recognized that the best thing they could do would be to stay out of everyone’s way, but he’d known enough nobility to be prepared for the worst. He hoped the king had made a wise choice, but Connor would be ready. All of their lives, all of the lives of everyone they loved depended on their success.

  They were preparing to fight the dread queen herself. If the new ruler of New Schwinkendorf endangered the vital work they were doing to prepare for the looming war, Connor would remove them and deal with the consequences.

  6

  Going from Bad to Worse

  Ailsa stood atop one of the nine high towers that reared above the throne room, perched above the central palace of Donleavy. Mealt Falls thundered past, almost close enough for Ailsa to touch.

  Heights did not usually bother her, but standing on that tiny catwalk at the top of that slender tower made her just a bit nervous. Worse, with the falls roaring past so close, the billowing spray clouding everything in mist and coating the stonework, slipping and plunging to her death became a very real danger. That would be such a stupid way to die after all the risks she’d survived.

  Nearby, Rosslyn was gleefully rushing around the narrow catwalk, hand outstretched to the falls. Of course, if Ailsa was a powerful Spitter, she wouldn’t have any reason to fear either. Surrounded by all that water, that narrow, slick catwalk was probably one of the safest places Rosslyn could witness the events unfolding just below them.

  The expanse of the multi-leveled capital city stretched to the north in a breathtaking vista, but Ailsa’s eyes were drawn to the intense blue flames crackling in the air above the semicircular throne room directly beneath her.

  General Aonghus was ascending.

  Ailsa watched the proceedings with great interest. Buried deep beneath her facade as the queen’s trusted advisor, Ailsa allowed a rare, well-shielded personal thought. “I’ve only got Connor’s ascension at the Carraig for comparison, but Aonghus doesn’t seem to be having such a good time of it.”

  He stood in the center of a column of intensely hot flames, little more than a shadowy figure etched in fire. The flames were growing so hot Ailsa could feel the heat even standing a hundred feet higher and surrounded by the cool, billowing spray.

  Only Queen Dreokt could venture close during a fiery marble ascension. She seemed impervious to the flames and ignored the fact that she was walking on thin air high above the palace. The dread queen was pacing in the air around Aonghus, who stood in the flames several dozen feet above the roof of the throne room. He was beginning to writhe, as if struggling to escape the conflagration.

  Queen Dreokt wielded such mastery over the elements that sometimes she seemed to forget that they were not actual extensions of her hands. She stepped to the very fringes of the flames and began calling out encouragement. It was perhaps the first time Ailsa had ever seen her openly support anyone but Harley.

  “He doesn’t look so good,” Rosslyn commented as she paused at the railing beside Ailsa.

  “I’ve heard that marble ascension is the most difficult. Flames purify, but also destroy, and from what I’ve heard this ascension could easily accomplish either result. Or possibly both.”

  “How could it do both?” Rosslyn asked with a frown.

  “Stepping through that threshold strips away all the dross from a person. Even if they survive, if the parts that were stripped away were the parts that most defined them, what would be left?”

  Rosslyn frowned. “I hadn’t considered that.”

  Ailsa kept her expression neutral and verified her surface thoughts were focused on Aonghus, but again allowed her inner self to think. “Rosslyn fascinates me. She’s a new addition to court, and she has much to worry about. More than the ever-present fear of death or mind-wiping, she must agonize over the fate of her dear children.”

  From all accounts, Rosslyn seemed a very capable young woman. In her thirties, daughter of High Lord Feichin, sister of Redmund, the hero of Drumwhindle Pass, and mother of two adorable toddlers who had arrived in the capital with her a few weeks earlier.

  She and her children still lived. High Lord Feichin had stepped into Dougal’s vacant seat as one of the queen’s high counselors, along with Ailsa. She might not be a Petralist, but as one of the senior sculptresses in the realm, she merited sufficient respect that her position serving the queen was not entirely unprecedented. Since Ailsa was not a high noble, she often provided insights that the queen found refreshing. So far she had thrived in the dangerous environment. High Lord Feichin and Rosslyn both seemed to be performing satisfactorily. That didn’t mean all was well, though.

  The queen had insisted on interviewing Rosslyn’s children. They appeared undamaged by the encounter, but Ailsa doubted they were unaffected.

  Queen Dreokt had brutally responded to rumors of insurrections stirring in other cities across the realm. Anyone even suspected of revolutionary thoughts was killed or mind-wiped. And she’d started interviewing the children of all the high houses.

  No one was completely sure what she did in those private interviews. Most of the children survived, and like Rosslyn’s kids, seemed fine. But Ailsa had picked up enough hints from the queen’s occasional angry ramblings against wicked servants that she felt more worried than ever. “If she’s not implanting into those children’s minds orders to rise up at the first sign of revolution by their families and murder their own relations, I’ll eat my last sculpture.”

  She wasn’t the only one who suspected that. Rumors abounded, and the entire kingdom huddled in fear. “Only Merkland stands free, but even with all the contacts I’ve helped them establish, no one else dares openly join the revolution.”

  With the country cowering under her heel, Queen Dreokt had used the winter to build up her decimated army. Like she had done with Lady Shona, she somehow could sense Petralist potential in people and spark it to greater intensity. She had helped scores of Petralists gain a secondary or tertiary affinity, and had gifted hundreds more a primary.

  Her army was growing every day, bursting with new Petralists. They were training hard in new military encampments near Crann and Belmullet. When the queen finally unleashed them, they’d field overwhelming force.

  That was not her only weapon.

  Ailsa’s musings were cut sho
rt by a wave of heat from below, so hot it warmed the steel catwalk underfoot and consumed some of the billowing mist, flashing it to steam in a hissing cloud. Ailsa cringed back from the steam, then risked another look over the side.

  The flames surrounding the writhing form of General Aonghus blazed from blue to white hot. The heat intensified as he slowly rose higher. It looked like the ascension was reaching its conclusion. Queen Dreokt was rapidly circling him, shouting encouragement, clapping and laughing as Aonghus suffered.

  Then abruptly the fires winked out. For a second, Aonghus stood in the air, white-hot fires burning in his eyes as he tipped his head back, threw his hands out, and shouted in ecstasy. Then he collapsed.

  The queen caught him and drew him to her like a mother might an injured child. She hugged him, stroking his head, whispering words too soft for Ailsa to hear. She floated higher with Aonghus still in her arms until she stepped onto the walkway beside Ailsa. There she gently released Aonghus, placing him carefully on his feet. He staggered, nearly falling.

  Ailsa steadied him and he leaned against her. His eyes popped open, and in that first glimpse, Ailsa read pain but also clarity.

  Like most Firetongues, Aonghus had always seemed rather unhinged. He possessed an exceptionally powerful affinity with marble and had seemed to love the wild insanity of walking with fire more than most.

  Now, for the first time ever, he looked completely in control. That was unnerving.

  The queen had done something to Aonghus, touched his mind and perhaps a little more than that, before sending him off to Merkland with Harley and Dougal. Although their mission had ultimately failed, Aonghus had accomplished his secret orders.

  “Poor Jean. So many suffer along with that pure soul.” From the accounts Ailsa had read, Jean’s exceptional grace in managing her terrible injuries had lessened the horror of what he had done, but could never erase it.

  While Ailsa kept her surface thoughts focused on joy that Aonghus had survived, sprinkled with reverent appreciation for her mighty liege, inwardly she shuddered to think what Aonghus could accomplish now, ascended in marble, stabilized and more in control than perhaps ever in his life.

  Queen Dreokt laughed again, clapping her hands together in glee. “Well done, General. You handle the burn exceptionally well. I expect great things from you.”

  Aonghus found his balance, turned to the queen, and executed a deep bow. “I appreciate your confidence, your Majesty. I owe everything I am, and everything I hope to be, to your good will and your most excellent gifts. I am your humble servant.”

  “Not too humble, I trust,” the queen corrected.

  Aonghus laughed, his normal, wild laughter with flames dancing in his eyes. “Never that humble, your Majesty.”

  “Good. Rosslyn, you’re next.” The queen turned to her with one raised eyebrow, as if challenging her to object.

  Rosslyn had survived several weeks in the capital, so she would never make such an obvious blunder. She curtsied, her expression eager. “At your command, my queen. I look forward to ascending. We’ll see if Aonghus can keep up with me then.”

  It was rather daring to joke in the queen’s presence, but somehow Rosslyn had managed to do it before, and the queen seemed to enjoy the levity. Few others could pull it off, but Ailsa silently applauded the younger woman for managing it.

  The queen chortled. “Oh yes. You two must train together daily and test your new limits. I need you at full strength before you lead my great host forth to battle.”

  Aonghus looked eager for a chance to spar with Rosslyn. The two had a running bet about who would prove most deadly. Aonghus usually pointed out that he alone of the senior leadership of Harley’s army had escaped alive, and touted the fact that it was well known that fire was the best battle element after slate.

  Rosslyn usually countered that if he hadn’t turned tail and run as fast as he had, he would not have survived either. She pointed to reports that suggested enormous casualties were attributed to Ivor, who had commanded the river during the battle.

  The queen seemed content to let them argue about it. She challenged them to try harder and dig deeper during their practice sessions. She seemed desperate to prove to the kingdom that she had powerful leaders under her command, even after losing both Harley and High Lord Dougal.

  Rosslyn said, “Once I’m ascended too, we’ll be able to spank Ivor, and maybe even challenge Kilian.”

  Aonghus laughed, but Ailsa could read him well enough to tell he was wise enough to still fear Kilian. Again, he seemed far more in control than she would like. A wild Aonghus was dangerous, but a calculating, controlled Aonghus was far deadlier.

  Queen Dreokt frowned. “You leave my naughty son to me. Kilian would destroy you both. As for Ivor, my plans for him work better if he lives.”

  That was about what Ailsa expected her to say. “Why have you been waiting to strike Merkland and destroy Kilian and dear Connor? They pose a threat I don’t yet understand or you would not have hesitated. This secret I must know.”

  Perhaps now she had a chance to find out more. “Dealing with Kilian and the other revolutionaries will indeed be a challenge. May I ask if you plan to lure them out by attacking Merkland again?”

  She had not dared such a direct question before. Luckily, the queen did not seem angered by the query, but waved a dismissive hand. “We’ll move against Merkland soon enough. The spring thaws will arrive in Granadure soon, and my wicked boy will have plenty to keep him occupied until I arrive to take his head.”

  Aonghus rubbed his hands together. “So we move against the Mhortair first?”

  She shook her head. “I have plans for them and the pitiful forces assembled from the so-called Arishat League. We will discuss the specifics in time, but today is a day of ascension. Rosslyn, as soon as you succeed we’ll feast to celebrate your successes.” She extracted an exquisite sculpted soapstone figurine from one pocket of her crimson and gold gown.

  Ailsa had completed the sculpture just a week prior, and although she knew it would be used to further the queen’s plans, she could not hide a little smile of pride as she looked at the exquisite figurine. The queen had provided an exceptional piece of soapstone, with excellent vortexes of power that Ailsa had worked and magnified until the final piece, shaped like a leaping dolphin, magnified the innate power of the stone nearly twenty times.

  It was one of the most powerful pieces that she had ever produced, and it helped a bit to know that Rosslyn would be ascending with it. As Ailsa got to know the young noblewoman, she liked her more and more. Rosslyn was a true patriot, eager to do her duty for the throne and her family honor, and innately possessing a sense of right and wrong.

  “Your integrity is the leverage I will use to gently turn you into a future ally.” One more step in the deadliest game she had ever played.

  Rosslyn took the stone and gasped at the first touch. The billowing spray all around them shook, as if from an invisible thunderclap. Her expression turned to a look of ecstasy. Slender arms of silvery water formed out of the spray and clasped Rosslyn. She laughed with pure joy as they lifted her off the catwalk and into the center of the thundering falls.

  While Ailsa peered vainly through the mist, her thoughts turned to the queen’s words. “Why mention the spring thaw? What do you have planned for Kilian and Connor and the others? Oh, I hope they’re ready.”

  When she glanced back, Aonghus was pacing away with bits of blue fire flickering along his hands. Queen Dreokt had turned away from where Rosslyn disappeared, and her impenetrable gaze was resting instead on Ailsa.

  7

  Kids Do the Darndest Things

  Connor opened the reinforced steel door into Mechanical Testing Bunker Number Three and stepped through, with Hamish right behind. Hamish had flown across town to meet him at the testing site, but now carried his helmet tucked under his left arm. It looked like he’d swapped the leather outer shell of his amazing Builder battle suit. Connor wondered what new enhan
cements he’d built into the incredible construct.

  “Sure you should be pushing open big doors in your invalid condition?” Hamish teased.

  “Eat rocks,” Connor retorted with a smile. Hamish had checked on him several times over the previous day since the painful end of the challenge course run. Connor had felt weak, and his muscles had occasionally twitched at random times, but he hadn’t suffered any lingering issues from the Varvakin lightning attack other than his hair still standing out wildly from his head.

  Hamish had seemed a bit disappointed that he hadn’t exhibited more side-effects. He’d hoped for explosive flatulence at minimum. As interesting as that might have been, Verena, who had stayed by Connor’s side most of the day, had been extremely grateful it never materialized.

  The testing bunker was situated just outside the western boundary of New Schwinkendorf, behind a heavily reinforced wall, inside a bunker fifty feet beneath the ground. At first Connor had thought the location was a little extreme, but through the winter they had experienced a number of truly fantastic failures. No one had been permanently injured, but the thick, reinforced steel walls bore a number of scorch marks and cracks.

  Jean was already there, standing in the observation balcony, a platform about twenty feet up one high wall, completely encased in reinforced Sehrazad steel glass. The wonderful invention looked like normal glass, but once fashioned, somehow became virtually indestructible. It offered excellent protection with unrestricted views. A crowd of assistants, researchers, and military officers clustered around Jean.

  She might be an Obrioner commoner, but everyone treated her like Lord Eberhard’s adopted daughter. She was clearly the leader and looked poised and confident, despite her terrible injuries.