Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy)

by J. S. Morin

  “What game do you play at, sir? I will not be made a fool of.” Lonford sounded indignant, but maintained his temper.

  “No game, Lonford. I am back. My magic has kept me alive longer than any of my predecessors, and I have been away for too long, but I am here, and I am indeed Rashan Solaran,” Rashan told him in a calm tone. He thought he might be able to convince the old herald, or he would not have bothered talking to him at all.

  “I do know your face. I am a student of Kadrin history, of course. You know that if you are using magic to look like him, scores of sorcerers inside—including all the Inner Circle—will see right through you,” Lonford said.

  Rashan merely nodded slightly in reply.

  “And you are not worried?”

  Rashan shook his head, just barely.

  Lonford swallowed visibly. “Very well.”

  Rashan followed Lonford down the short hall to the ballroom. The sounds of flutes and drums and lutes wafted in as they approached, as well as the general din of a hundred conversations taking place. At the entrance of the room, Lonford paused, turned, and looked askance of Rashan. The warlock nodded in reply.

  “I present Rashan Solaran, Warlock of the Empire, High Sorcerer, and the blood-stained right hand of the emperor.” Lonford winced as he added the last part, though he no doubt knew that it was nearly as good as an official part of the title.

  The music played on, but the conversations halted as if they had tripped. Rashan looked out into the sea of the men and women who represented the elite class of the Empire. The sorcerers were decked out in parchment-thin armor of silver or gold, with fanciful and mirthful crests emblazoned on their tabards. Most of the would-be knights carried thin, dull swords made of cheap steel, and a few had on fake mustaches to poke fun at the knightly pretense of neatly groomed facial hair in which so many indulged.

  The knights, for the most part, were dressed in what appeared to be ill-fitted bed linens, with necklaces of dangling baubles and pointed hats that had fallen out of fashion before even Rashan’s time—with everyone except those who wished to lampoon sorcerous pomp.

  The nobles and merchants Rashan could hardly tell apart, for they tended to focus on more specific impersonations, and by his accounting, there was little difference between the two groups. The nobles were greedy, manipulative snakes who felt they were superior by birthright. The merchants were greedy, manipulative snakes who felt they were superior because they were good at being greedy, manipulative snakes.

  The ladies present were mostly not costumed, as such. It was unbefitting a lady of standing to admit to having rivals, and if they were to, they would’ve had to have been forced to dress much the same regardless. The exception to this were the ladies of the Imperial Circle, who were dressed as knights much like their male colleagues. The women sorcerers of the Empire had even better cause to satirize the knighthood, as there were no women among their ranks. Everyone enjoyed the sight of the ladies’ armor and the very large—often magically lightened—swords they carried.

  All these various people stopped and stared up at the entrance where Rashan stood smiling, giving the impression of being happily returned to them after a long time away. Most of those doing the staring were surprised and confused; the name was familiar to everyone, though some of the poorer students of history might not quite have recalled from where. The sorcerers of the Inner Circle were aghast. While they knew that Rashan, or at least someone claiming to be him, had returned to the Empire, they all believed that person to be safely stowed away in the most secure cell they had. One person, and only one person, was not surprised at all that he had escaped imprisonment; Iridan merely sighed and hoped he was not going to kill anyone.

  While the entrance was up several steps from the ballroom floor, Rashan’s lack of height meant that only those nearest the entrance saw that he was armed. None of those close enough recognized the weapon for anything but a prop, as least as far as they let on. As he descended down into the crowd, a few conversations started back up, and some took on a whole new tenor as the guests speculated as to what was transpiring. Rashan smiled and nodded, acknowledging any who made eye contact with him. He picked his way through the crowd until someone approached him.

  “What are you playing at?” growled Gravis Archon under his breath from just inches away from Rashan. He was wearing plate armor and a green tabard with a crest that depicted a fat, sleeping bear, and wore a rapier on his belt that was twisted like a corkscrew and flopped a bit as he walked.

  “That is the second time someone has suggested that this is a game. While I will admit to enjoying myself thus far on my return home, this is no game. If you wish to hear the long and sordid tale of my time outside the Empire, I shall tell it sometime, but for now just know this: I am back, and I intend to stay.”

  “So you think you can just walk back from a century of neglecting the Empire and be welcomed as a returning hero? If you really are Rashan, you have become a fool,” Gravis replied.

  Rashan just looked up and down at Gravis’s outfit and smiled, cocking his head as if to say: Which of us looks the fool?

  Gravis frowned. “You make light of this? Is this all a farce to you? You cannot expect me to be convinced you are our long-dead warlock by acting the jester.”

  “You were just a boy. You never knew me, but I was always the jester. You can only surround your heart with so much death without it consuming you. However, if you would like a more serious topic, who has been in my room?” Rashan asked.

  For the first time, it seemed he had hit his mark. Gravis’s face went ashen.

  “What do you mean, ‘Who has been in your room?’”

  “I mean, I went up there to retrieve some of my old things, and I found something missing. Someone besides me has been in there.”

  “You got into Rashan’s chambers?” Gravis asked in a hushed tone. “That lock has thwarted all attempts at entry since he died.”

  “My chambers … and of course I got in. I hardly have to think about it to disarm the wards. But someone has gotten in. You do not know who that might have been, by any chance? Oh, and while we are being incredulous, I worked on the wards in the dungeon. Getting out of there was simple as well.” Rashan felt he had Gravis convinced now.

  “As I said, no one has gotten in to the best of my knowledge. We have tried here and there, but it is a puzzle. There is a standing offer of immediate graduation for any student of the Academy who can get in there. Can you prove you actually got in?” Gravis asked.

  Iridan had quietly made his way within earshot of the conversation, and he was very curious to hear the answer to that one as well.

  “First of all, this costume is actually the genuine article. Look at the aether, and you will see it.” He paused briefly as Gravis Archon concentrated. “And while you are noticing that the garments are unaltered, please note that I am immortal,” he added casually.

  Gravis frowned slightly, and his eyes unfocused. “You are a demon!” Gravis gasped, taking a quick half step backward. His coiled sword bounced comically in response.

  “How else would I still be alive? I am two hundred and forty-seven summers old, unless I lost track somewhere along the way. You are less than half my age and showing your winters,” Rashan said. Despite the vast difference in age, Rashan indeed looked barely past adolescence, and Gravis appeared at least thrice his age.

  “Oh, I might add that I figured out where you had hidden this.” He patted Heavens Cry at his hip.

  Gravis’s eyes widened as he realized what weapon the demon was carrying.

  “You really should not have given it to poor Brannis to drag around. With no aether to control it, it must have been as dangerous to his men as it was to his enemies.”

  “You have broken Heavens Cry loose of its bindings? Why?”

  Gravis seemed perplexed. Several of the Inner Circle were hovering nearby now, listening in and ready to intervene if necessary. Iridan noticed them and kept back just a little farther tha
n the subtle circle they had formed a short way from the two senior sorcerers.

  “First of all, because it is mine. Secondly, because I think it helps bolster my case for my identity. Thirdly, because there is the small chance that some fool one of you is going to try to attack me and embolden others to do likewise,” Rashan answered simply. “While I think I would be able to defend myself even without it, I prefer to have more weaponry than I need rather than less.”

  “So you expect us to take you back? Just like that? You make a strong case. You certainly know things that Rashan Solaran should know, but you still may have come by this knowledge by other means, demon.”

  Gravis tried to hold his ground in an argument he was clearly losing. Whispered conversations were taking place behind him among the Inner Circle and many of the other guests who had been drawn away from the music, food, and dancing by the high sorcerer’s meeting with one of the Empire’s ghosts.

  “A draw, then,” Rashan said. “I challenge you here and now, for leadership of the Circle. By rights, I should not even have to, but I shall prove my point. There should be water enough in the fountains out front to soak up your spent aether at the end.” Rashan smiled, baiting the high sorcerer.

  * * * * * * * *

  Iridan’s eyes widened and a smile grew on his face, unbidden. Now that would be a sight to remember: a draw between Rashan and Gravis Archon.

  Cut that pompous old fool’s ego to shreds, Rashan, Iridan wished.

  Iridan had always loved a good draw, even as a young student at the Academy …

  It had been late morning on that day not so many autumns ago, and the fog had just lifted on Dragon Lake and the surrounding countryside. The Academy lay just on the north side of the lake. That day, on the grounds overlooking the water, the faculty and student body of the Academy were gathered, along with many curious onlookers from the palace and the army.

  It was Ranking Day. Students below the age of fourteen were ranked solely on their academic success, but thereafter, each springtime the students would compete in a draw to see who would be first among them, and second, third, and so forth down to the bottom of the class. They would compete both against students their own age, and against the whole student body. It had long been considered essential to bringing out the best in the top students, to force them to compete against one another.

  It was to be the last day Brannis spent at the Imperial Academy, as it was the first time he had been eligible for Ranking Day and took part in his first and only draw. It was the day he had had to make the painful admission before everyone that he was not only incapable of competing, but of even properly witnessing the event. He was no better than the knights and courtiers who came just for the excitement and to see who were the up-and-comers among the young sorcerers. After a single bout, he accepted a disqualification and the bottom rank in the Academy, rather than be trotted out to be defeated repeatedly by the weakest students in the class until it was certain he was worst. That same evening, High Sorcerer Gravis Archon would take Brannis aside to test him for any sign at all of hope for his magical abilities, and finally give up on him.

  For Iridan, however, it was a day of glory. He had been a modest student, competent but unexceptional, solidly lodged in the middle of his class. He was a nobody, from a family with no history of magical aptitude, and despite showing promise, he had never been taken terribly seriously. He was the sort of student that Ranking Day was created for.

  The draw was a civilized sorcerer’s alternative to dueling. Two sorcerers stood a short distance apart in an area of sufficient and reasonably balanced aether. A number of other sorcerers stood in attendance, and either one sorcerer or a small group of them would stand in judgment. At the command to begin, each combatant would draw as much aether as he, or she, could. As the two drew aether in, the judges would watch for a current to form in the aether, showing who had the more powerful draw. If one was clearly the stronger, the flow of aether would be noticeably stronger toward that sorcerer. If the two were closely matched, small interferences from outside the competition would make it too close to determine a winner by flow alone. If such was the case, as the aether in the immediate area began to be used up, one judge would declare a “hold.” At that point, each sorcerer stopped gathering in aether and tried to contain what they had drawn for as long as possible. The first one to need to release aether, either during the hold or anytime before, was declared the loser. Large quantities of water were always on hand in case the sorcerers were unable to use the aether productively in a spell.

  As for Iridan, he had spent the morning embarrassing his classmates and had carved a swath through the older students as well. The ability to draw aether could be improved over time with practice and techniques, but much of it was raw natural ability, which, as it turned out, Iridan possessed by the wagonload.

  The first matches had been uncompetitive, with the judges quickly awarding victories from a clear dominance of the flow of aether shortly after the matches had begun. The students his age fell by the wayside, with only a couple putting up much resistance. He was glad that one of the other students had eliminated Brannis, because that was a match he had not relished having to win.

  Once he got paired with the older students, he found the going a little more difficult, but not difficult enough to actually cause him to lose. Iridan was still drawing aether faster than any of them, and he had yet to have a hold called. There was a satisfaction that few could understand, when a boy of no family worth noting defeated an Archon, or a Gardarus, or a Solaran, or any boy or girl who had grown up with every advantage granted by a sorcerous bloodline. It felt good putting a few of them in their place.

  Iridan’s last opponent now stood across from him. It was Garrelos Gardarus, a lad of seventeen whom Iridan hardly knew. Three summers older, Garrelos was hardly one to socialize with a young boy with no social connections. He was a bookish sort, solidly built but not what one would ever confuse with muscular, with intense brown eyes and a round face. He had been having just as easy a time of it as Iridan, except he’d had fewer age groups to advance through, starting as he was in the eldest rank of the Academy.

  “Begin,” High Sorcerer Gravis had announced.

  Both boys drew aether as fast as they were able. Iridan noticed immediately that he was being outdrawn, and he redoubled his efforts. The older boy probably held a small advantage over him, but the judges were always careful not to call a bout too early if it was close. The hold was a much more reliable method of determining a winner. When Iridan got the sense that a hold was coming, he eased off just a little, hoping to have to contain less aether than his opponent. It was a sound strategy, and more often used by the one winning, but Iridan found that as he backed off, so did Garrelos.

  “Hold,” came the call, as both had expected.

  Iridan quickly stopped drawing aether. It was more than he had ever held. He knew it was more than was safe to hold. He trusted that all the senior members of the Imperial Circle were there and would rush to the aid of either participant if there was an accident, but he did not want to lose like that. He calmed himself and tried to hold in the aether that rushed around within his Source, a throbbing, pulsating, burning sensation; it felt like taking a mouthful of stew that was too hot and only grew hotter.

  Iridan tried to focus on just his own predicament, but he could not help but keep an eye on his opponent. Garrelos was clearly straining, and Iridan watched to see when he would fail. Built up with confidence from a dozen and more bouts already, it did not occur to Iridan that he might go down first.

  Suddenly Garrelos lurched forward. Plumes of steam jetted up from the large basins that stood behind him. Iridan was declared victorious, and a cheer rang up from the audience. The Academy’s top-ranked student had been determined.

  But Iridan was not done yet. He had been practicing something special all on his own. The students of his rank had been taught the basic concepts of silent casting, but no more. Iridan had taken tha
t lesson well to heart, however, and practiced a few spells until he was rather good with them silently. Ever since he began winning earlier in the morning, he had started planning what he would do if he won.

  Iridan calmed himself as best he could and bled a little aether out into the basins where Garrelos had just dumped all the aether he had held. It was just enough to regain control from the edge of feeling like he was about to explode, and he had used Garrelos’s basins instead of his own, just to keep up appearances a bit.

  He felt his palms crossed in front of him but did not move them. He felt the spell about to take hold and thrust his fist into the air.

  The crowd gasped as an impressive aether bolt sundered the sky, leaving a hole in the clouds above and letting in a small ray of sunshine on the overcast morning. The cheering erupted anew, and his best friend Brannis rushed out to crush him in a hug, then lifted him up on his shoulder. People crowded in to congratulate him.

  It had been the best day of his life.

  * * * * * * * *

  Iridan found himself very much hoping the high sorcerer would accept Rashan’s challenge. Iridan loved the spectacle of a draw and even went back to the Academy each Ranking Day to watch. He often made some spare coin betting on the contests. A contest between Rashan and Gravis was one he would pay a month’s wage for the privilege of watching.

  “I think not,” Gravis replied, and more than just Iridan were within earshot and disappointed by the news. “We can discuss the matter further tomorrow in the Sanctum. If you can offer further evidence to back your claim, we will hear it then.”

  “Would you not rather settle the matter right now and be done with it?” Rashan said.

  There was a hungry look in Rashan’s eyes that betrayed how much he wanted to confront the high sorcerer.

  I wonder how many men have died with their last sight being that look on his face, Iridan mused.

  “No, and since you seem to prefer such responses, I shall list why. Firstly, I have nothing to gain in victory; I would only achieve a stalemate. Secondly, I am aware of the history of how you came to be warlock, and will not repeat that mistake,” to which Rashan averted his gaze and looked sincerely chastened. “And thirdly, it is Bygones Night, which is anathema to the draw. Now, if you will pardon me, my wife would much enjoy my company for the rest of the evening.”