Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy)

by J. S. Morin

  Juliana had never met this woman but hated her already.

  After the duke had finished his argument with Brannis, they each had left in opposite directions: Brannis to the upper floors, and Duke Pellaton to the feast hall. Overcoming her natural inclination to trail after Brannis, Juliana decided to lurk after the duke instead. The old man fumed and was carrying his cane in his hand like a sword, limping along down the main corridor of the castle with servants and workers alike scattering at his approach. Someone was bound to feel that seething wrath, and she was interested to find out who.

  He was an old man and slow even with the aid of his cane, so she had no trouble keeping pace with him even as the ranks of those busy about their duties closed in behind him and business resumed its course in his wake. Sorceresses were not far below angry noblemen on the list of people who are not harassed by crowds, and Juliana found that her black Circle garb was heraldry enough to announce her status. The duke showed no sign that he knew he was being followed. There were people all about, too many to keep track of with the extra people all about.

  She followed through the corridors until the duke reached the great hall, which was apparently his destination. Preparations were under way for a huge feast—by order of the warlock. She had heard about it shortly before turning in for the night, but it seemed that the duke had not been quite so well informed.

  “What is all this?” Duke Pellaton bellowed to the room at large, not seeing anyone who appeared to be in charge of the efforts.

  Juliana had not entered the great hall with him but rather kept to the corridor outside, so she could not hear what must have been an unsatisfactory response.

  “I do not care what that usurper said! Get this all out of here at once. This is still my city. I have walls, homes, and shops to be rebuilding! I cannot afford feasting at a time like this. If I find so much as one bottle of wine or brandy missing from my personal stores, I shall have your hide.”

  The room had grown silent in light of the duke’s tirade, but not quite enough for her to make out the response. The pause was long, though, before the duke spoke again.

  “You ought to think who shall still be here next week. I assure you it will not be that … that creature … outside. Now clear the hall! All of you!” the duke shouted.

  Juliana’s jaw clenched—she despised petty tyrants. Greater tyrants were new to her, and she had yet to settle an opinion on her future oathfather, but the men who enjoyed belittling those weaker than themselves when insecure about their own authority were a particular peeve of hers. She knew that the warlock was going to be angry that his orders were countermanded, and whom Rashan held accountable might go a long way in helping her form opinions of those greater tyrants.

  And if she did not see justice done, there was a certain dagger she had picked from the corpse of her would-be assassin. Duke Pellaton may have been a horrid ruler and awful father, but those were forgivable. The danger he posed to Brannis, should he carry through with any of his blustering threats, was not.

  * * * * * * * *

  The room had been cleaned, and the bedclothes changed, but Celia knew of the murder that had taken place in the room they had given her. One of the Circle sorcerers from Kadris had been lodging here and had been slain by a goblin assassin. The floor still smelled of lye where the servants had no doubt scrubbed away blood. It seemed that it was the only room left that had been deemed suitable for a sorceress to stay in, but Celia would have preferred a room whose dark history was more a subject of ancient history than yesterday’s gossip.

  “I have been invited to the feasting tonight, and I have naught but borrowed clothes to wear. Ill-fitting ones, I might add,” Celia informed the ladies’ maid that had been assigned to attend her during her stay.

  The girl’s name was Chartra—she refused to call her “Miss Chartra,” as the Duchess Pellaton had—and she seemed to be as young as Celia looked, perhaps eighteen summers, give or take a summer here or there.

  “I know this is scant notice,” Celia said, “but what can you do?”

  “Well, milady, I can take that dress in if you like. I am a fair seamstress, and it should not take long,” Chartra said.

  Celia looked down at the dress she wore, stolen from the wardrobe of the rather plump Lady Feldrake, and shook her head.

  “No, I think not,” Celia replied. “Even if I cared for it in the least, it is dirty and battle worn, and I slept in it besides. Are there dresses to be purchased anywhere in the city? I have no coin, but the warlock assured me that all costs I incurred would be covered by the imperial treasury. He said I was to be well attired for the revelry, so let coin be no object.”

  “Well, milady, I think I can find you something nice that is close enough to be fitted. I shall do the fitting myself, or we can have the dressmaker do it in her shop,” Chartra said.

  “Well, in the shop is out of the question. As soon as you depart for the dressmaker, I would like you to have someone sent up to draw a bath. I have needed one for some time,” Celia told the girl, though she was not about to go into detail as to why. “Get me at least three dresses to choose from. Oh, and find some jewelry to match each. Remember, cost be forgotten.”

  “Of course, milady.” Chartra smiled.

  Celia knew that the girl would enjoy spending the Empire’s coin at the dressmaker. She hoped the girl had a sense of style to go along with her enthusiasm.

  Warlock Rashan had made it quite clear she was to look her best. She had gotten no impression of lechery from the ancient demon, but she suspected that there was some deeper reason to his insistence. Regardless, she had seen real power out on the plains below Raynesdark, personified in the diminutive warlock who had collected her from the ruins of the goblin encampment. She was not inclined to cross him at any cost.

  After the battle, he had brought her to the castle and ordered that a room be made ready for her, and told her she was invited to the victory feast: “You will be honored along with those who fought. Your account of your time with the goblins does you credit,” he had told her. “You should find better garb, though, to grace the feast hall properly with your beauty. Erase all sign of hardship and show how the victorious celebrate. Whatever costs are incurred, I shall see to them.”

  Am I to be the example held up before all or am I to be part of the decorations? Little matter, I suppose. I am neither prisoner nor dead. I shall play the role I am given.

  Celia soaked for what felt like hours, once her bath had been drawn. She had not asked for the water to be hot, preferring to heat it herself with her aether, adjusting it to match her ideal temperature exactly. She cleaned herself thoroughly, then sank back to relax in the warm water. She was nearly asleep in the tub when Chartra returned with a porter in tow, carrying an array of dresses and accessories.

  “Milady will find something to her tastes, I am sure,” she assured Celia, directing the porter to lay the clothing upon the bed before shooing him from the room. “Let us get you out of there and dried off, and we can pick out your favorite.

  Chartra helped Celia out of the bath and brought her a towel to dry herself. A fancier sorceress might have just let the water wick from her body by magic, but Celia was not skilled enough for such a trick; she had to rely on the fabric to do the hard part.

  Sufficiently but incompletely dry, Celia pulled the first of the dresses on. It was red and frilly, with slightly puffed shoulders, and laced up the back, leaving much of her back exposed. Bits were trimmed in gold here and there, and translucent fabric layered over other areas.

  “Quite fetching,” Chartra remarked, pulling the fabric taut against Celia’s middle.

  The dress would need to be taken in, and Chartra apparently wanted to show how it might look if properly fitted. Celia twisted a bit to her left and right and regarded herself in the full-length mirror on the wall.

  “No, I think not. Pretty, but not quite right for me,” Celia judged. Her skin tone was middling, neither light enough nor dark enoug
h to throw the red into contrast, and she wanted something striking.

  The second they tried was a rather severe black gown, and Celia dismissed it without even trying it on.

  Too much like Circle robes. I want to look my best, not look important.

  The third dress was blue, with accents of a more greenish hue of blue, and thin white lace trim. It had stays built into the front and sides to slim the figure, and it felt like it was cutting her in half as Chartra laced up the back—which was more warmly covered than that of the red dress. It was low cut, and both lifted and enhanced her curves. Celia tugged a bit at the front, seeing her figure cast in the mirror as she had not shown it off since she had been married. The blue also matched well with the color of her eyes.

  “This … will do. Just … loosen …” Celia said with the dress squeezing her lungs. Chartra eased off the laces. “Much better. Take it out a bit so it can be laced properly and this will do nicely. Unless you found some rather tall shoes as well, it shall need hemming.”

  Celia kicked her bare feet under the folds of the dress as it spilled onto the floor about her.

  “Afraid not, milady. Slippers seemed best without you there to fit them. They might not be perfect, but they will form a bit to the foot. I shall take the hem up for you.”

  “Good. Now show me what you brought for jewelry.”

  Celia had been told to look her best. She was just following orders. Yes, just following orders …

  * * * * * * * *

  Voices were raised, and so were mugs and tankards. The duke’s feast hall was packed with soldiers and militia alike, not to mention enough of their womenfolk to make the atmosphere festive. Music from the fiddle, flute, and drum trio in the middle of the room played a lively, bouncing melody, and people danced to it. The duke’s wine cellar was emptied to the bottle at Rashan’s order. The duke had been chased off to his own private quarters—whence he could no doubt hear the revelry still—and the only stay upon the excesses of drink was the hope that the stores would last them the night. To ensure the wine and spirits lasted, there was ale in plenty to make up for any shortcomings.

  The young and not-so-old crowded the hall and spilled out into the adjoining rooms and corridors, making their merriment as they drank it. The grey-beards hung about the fringes, enjoying their drink with less reckless abandon, talking amongst themselves and watching the younglings make fools of themselves.

  Young though he was, Brannis took his place among the grey-beards, remembering his position as Grand Marshal of the Empire and keenly aware of the public threat he had made to the ruler of the city just a few hours earlier. His was not a position to be taken lightly, and he was intent on seeing that he did not. He stood near one of the long tables set against the walls of the room with refreshments, a tankard of good dark ale in his hand, which he nursed carefully.

  At Brannis’s elbow was the demon warlock, taking swigs from an unstoppered decanter of horse whiskey—so called because a glass of it cost about the same as a good horse. The demon neither needed drink nor particularly enjoyed its taste, but it was Duke Pellaton’s, and it was being drunk spitefully, as retribution for overstepping his bounds in trying to cancel the feast. Rashan had plans for the feast larger than the coin-clutching concerns of a miserly nobleman.

  “You know,” Rashan murmured to Brannis, “you could sweep up any lass out there and have a dance with her. There are plenty to be had, and no man would gainsay you.”

  “Hmph,” Brannis harrumphed. “Tell that to the husband or sweetheart of the one I pick. There may be maids out there, but my guess is most are spoken for. You know, history has given you too much credit as a tactician. That was a clumsy attempt and you should know better.”

  Brannis cast a wry smile at the warlock, who was clearly still intent on steering him away from Juliana. If only he knew how much I was already on his side. It is her you need to work on.

  “That has not deterred Faolen, it would seem,” Rashan remarked.

  Indeed the illusion specialist was decked out like a palace courtier, outshining most of the ladies present in his finery. While those who attended the feast had worn their holiday best, they were largely common folk with little money for exotic fashions. Faolen was arrayed in red and gold silk, with green hose beneath. He was taking ladies from their menfolk at every turn, allaying anger only by his lack of persistence with any one of them.

  Warlock and Grand Marshal watched in silence for a time, seeing couples twirl and bounce and hop to the rhythm of the musicians’ song. Brannis was surprised when he noted Juliana and Iridan dancing—albeit awkwardly—in the middle of the hall. Juliana was much taller than her betrothed, and though Brannis was no expert on dancing, she appeared to be leading. Iridan was no clumsier than half the men dancing but seemed more conscious of his shortcoming than the more inebriated celebrants. Juliana was gamely trying to adjust to his frequent missteps and corrections, where he would stop for a moment and try to join back in on-beat with the music.

  Well, it is a start at least. She is trying. Brannis hoped that his rebuke of her two nights prior had gotten the message through to her.

  As he watched the hand-fast couple, Rashan broke in upon his musings: “Ahh, Sir Brannis,” the warlock caught his attention and tugged, addressing him formally against his usual custom.

  Brannis turned and saw a young woman approaching the warlock. His breath caught in his lungs momentarily as he briefly had a vision of Abbiley; the girl bore some resemblance, but he quickly put to rest any serious thought that the object of Kyrus’s affection was in both worlds as well. It would have been too great a coincidence.

  “Allow me to introduce Celia Mistfield, Fifth Circle.”

  “Sorceress Celia.” Brannis inclined his head politely toward the sorceress.

  She was stunning in a dress the colors of the South Katamic—blues and blue-greens, with white lace for foam or sea spray—to match her striking blue eyes, which were alive and alert, unlike many of the court ladies, whose eyes seemed bored and unfocused much of the time. She wore teardrop sapphire earrings and a necklace of pearls and sapphires intermixed. She was about Abbiley’s height, and far more womanly endowed than was Juliana. She looked right into his eyes as he greeted her, with no hint of shyness about her.

  “Grand Marshal Brannis. I have heard so much about you since arriving last night,” Celia responded.

  “All exaggerations, I assure you,” Brannis could not stop himself. He just could not help his self-deprecation in front of ladies. He was being led down a steep slope, he now realized.

  “Not exaggerated in the least, I assure you,” Rashan interjected. “Sir Brannis, Sorceress Celia has had an arduous journey to Raynesdark and is a stranger to everyone present. As I am now responsible for all the Imperial Circle, I would consider it as a personal favor if you could look after her for the evening among all these unfamiliar faces.”

  Brannis had of course heard the report of a human sorceress held captive by the goblins from the sacking of Illard’s Glen. While he had been gladdened to hear the report of a survivor of the night’s slaughter among the goblins, he had more pressing concerns than delving into the details of the girl’s ordeal. He thought he remembered her being described as a widow, however.

  “Of course, my lady,” Brannis extended an arm to her, setting aside his tankard on a nearby table with the other.

  Well played, Warlock. Save your prize lamb from the wolf by feeding it another. There was no possible way to refuse the warlock’s request with any dignity, and the sorceress was intriguing in her own right. Maybe I can just move on and put my troubles with Juliana in my past for good. The only other path opposes Rashan, and I can only push him so far.

  Brannis escorted Celia out amid the dancers, and they joined in with the merriment. Brannis danced poorly, but so did Celia, and neither of them saw fit to mention it. Brannis’s arm ached and occasionally reminded him of his injury even more forcefully when he twirled Celia beneath his hand,
but he was sporting about staying out among the dancers and showing the sorceress a good time. After the first couple dances passed, he even managed to forget that he had been manipulated into taking her, and genuinely enjoyed her company.

  “What was … that?” Celia asked, breathing hard from the quick pace of their dancing.

  “What … was what?” Brannis asked back, seeking clarification of one of the vaguest possible questions—which Brannis knew from long experience at verbal jousting were the ones most dangerous to answer blindly.

  “There, you … just did it … again. You wince at each pass of this dance,” Celia said sternly. She seemed to have caught on.

  “Broken … in the battle last night,” Brannis admitted, puffing out his answer between breaths.

  “Well …” Celia redirected their course along the dance floor, off to one side of the room. “No more … for now.” She paused at the edge of the dance to gather up her breath, and allowed Brannis to do likewise. She clung to him still but carefully chose the unbroken arm for her own arm to encircle. “You ought to have said something.”

  “It was fine. I enjoyed myself completely. The bone is set with aether; I was doing no harm to it.” Brannis smiled down at Celia. She was so approachable in her manner, he found it easy to talk to her.

  “Care to buy a lady a tankard of wine?” Celia jested.

  Brannis, too, had noted the distinct lack of couth in the manner Duke Pellaton’s wines were being consumed. Generations-old vintages were being swilled from the bottle and poured into mugs not entirely drained empty of ale.