Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy

by Cas Peace

  Taran flushed, shamed by the terror he had inflicted on his friends. His many previous incompetent attempts at furthering his knowledge were humiliating enough, but none was as destructive as this.

  He tried to force down a tide of self-blame but couldn’t escape the fact that he had killed an Andaryan noble. No doubt the man’s retinue would call it murder, and they would seek vengeance. That, coupled with Taran’s theft—however unintentional—of a weapon the Andaryans would surely want back, meant this situation was far from resolved.

  In his fear, he ignored Cal’s perfectly reasonable question.

  “Did you lock the cellar door?”

  Cal nodded. “I never leave it, you know that.”

  There was nothing Taran could do right now. He was weak, he was sore. “I’m not up to dealing with it now,” he sighed, “I need to sleep. Maybe I’ll feel stronger when I wake. We’ll open a new portway, send the thing back. I don’t want it here any longer than necessary.”

  Rienne watched Taran close his eyes and sink back onto the pillows. Glancing at Cal, she left him sitting on the edge of the bed.

  She left the sleeping room, moving through the cottage until she reached the cellar door. There was more to this than Taran had said, she was sure. Something in his eyes … It was fear, she realized, and felt herself go cold.

  Standing in front of the cellar’s wooden door, she regarded the lock as if it might undo itself. She trusted Cal, yet couldn’t resist giving the lock a tug. It was firmly secured, as he had said.

  Reassured by that if by nothing else, she returned to the warmth of the living room fire and sat staring into the flames.

  Chapter Five

  When Taran next awoke, it was daylight. Tentatively, he moved his limbs, relieved to discover only the soreness of his wounds and the aches to be expected after the previous day’s exertions. This was a good sign, so he decided to try his powers by reaching out to Cal. Gently, he gathered his will and released a quiet call.

  Instantly, he wished he hadn’t. White-hot slivers of fire licked his brain and he gasped in shock. Had the Staff done permanent damage?

  However, the experiment was obviously successful because he could hear someone thundering down the stairs. Cal burst into the room and, despite his pain, Taran couldn’t help but smile. Cal had dashed from his bed, totally naked.

  “Taran, what is it? You sounded like you were in pain … ?”

  Taran hastened to reassure his Apprentice even though he felt far from happy about his condition.

  “Sorry Cal, I didn’t mean to startle you. I was testing myself, but I’m obviously not recovered yet. Sorry.”

  He was sorrier still when a sleepy Rienne came into the room, a blanket clutched around her body against the early chill. Her soft gray eyes were full of anxiety, but when she realized it was a false alarm, she gave Taran a reproachful look and dragged Cal back to bed. Taran sighed and lay back, wondering how long it would be before his mind recovered. He didn’t dare think it might not.

  Such depressing thoughts eventually forced him to rise. He couldn’t go back to sleep and tossing in his bed did him no good. He dressed, his muscles stiff and sore, and left his room. As he crossed the living space, he lit a taper from the banked fire. He approached the cellar door, seeing with satisfaction that it was securely locked. Taking the key from around his neck, he unlocked the door and descended the steps. A musty smell hit his nostrils. He touched the taper to a lamp resting on a nearby shelf and held it up, illuminating the center of the floor.

  There lay the abandoned Staff. Setting the lamp down, Taran crouched to examine it.

  Even in the warm lamp light there was something cold and vicious about it. His skin crept as he remembered the deadly energy that had flashed from its tip. Memories of blue-green light flared before his eyes and gooseflesh rose on his skin. How had it been made, he wondered? More importantly, why? He felt sure the noble’s challenge had something to do this terrible object, yet what he had hoped to accomplish, Taran had no idea. He knew that the Staff was a metaphysical instrument, some kind of amplifier of metaforce, but whether it had uses beyond the offensive, he couldn’t tell. He had never heard or read of anything like it before.

  He stared—had light just rippled down its surface? Or had his hand trembled, causing the lamp to flare? Suddenly, he didn’t want to be here, squatting next to this deadly weapon. He straightened and extinguished the lamp. As he climbed the stairs, he resisted the impulse to run.

  Nearly a week passed before Taran felt strong enough to attempt the Staff’s return, despite his growing sense of urgency. Badly frightened by his first painful attempt to use power, he waited two days before accessing his metaforce again. To his great relief, the pain was significantly less. Even so, he waited another day before believing his sore brain had returned to normal. His confidence was only restored after two more days of careful experimentation.

  He knew Cal was relieved to see he’d recovered; his Apprentice had been hovering around him even more than Rienne did. Now the two of them stood side-by-side in the cellar, preparing to open another portway.

  Despite the risks of opening a breach in the Veils in a populated area, Taran felt safe building the portway in the cellar. He was hidden from prying eyes and the cellar’s thick stone walls and deliberately concave floor helped contain the small leakage of Earth element he wasn’t yet strong enough to control.

  The Staff still lay in the center of the floor. Taran didn’t want to touch it again and he had forbidden Cal to do so. His intention was to raise Earth force directly under the Staff and form the portway with the weapon already inside. Once the Veils were breached, he would use his metaforce to push it through to Andaryon. He did worry that it might damage whoever picked it up, but he forced himself to ignore his conscience. He had to get rid of the Staff.

  Now the two men stood side-by-side, eyes closed and arms outstretched, palms facing downward to direct the flow of metaforce into the rock of the floor. Quieting his mind, Taran felt deep within until he could access his psyche. Its familiarity surrounded him, flooding him with metaforce.

  Turning his attention to Cal, Taran could feel him doing the same. Cal was slower, less confident, but his strength was growing. Soon he was ready and Taran felt him give control of his power to his mentor.

  Linked to Cal, Taran isolated the areas of their psyches that were attuned to the element of Earth. His senses sank into the rock beneath his feet, calling to the forces buried there. With a thrill that never failed to move him, he felt the weighty rise as the primal element responded to his call. Trying not to lose concentration, he drew it into the shallow depression in the floor. Slowly, as he called for more power, sluggish tendrils of Earth force began to lick at his feet.

  Opening his eyes, he nodded to Cal. It was his Apprentice’s task to mold this energy into a spherical portway, but it had to be done slowly and carefully so no gaps appeared in the construction.

  When Cal had completed the portway, he opened his eyes, looking to Taran for approval. Forming portways was his latest achievement and he was proud of his new ability.

  Taran smiled. “Well done, Cal.”

  He anchored the structure within the substance of the Veils so it would remain firm. Pushing aside the slight headache he always felt when expending power, he drew a breath and prepared to activate the portway.

  The Staff still lay quiescent; it hadn’t reacted to the primal element. But when Taran’s metaforce touched the portway, there was a subtle change. Frowning, he glanced at Cal, but his Apprentice hadn’t noticed. When he looked back at the portway, his skin began to crawl.

  Slowly, ominously, its color was changing. Usually portways were translucent, an opalescent mist shot through with the odd spark of silver or gold, occasionally red. This one, however, was beginning to take on a greenish tinge, much like the color of the Staff. Taran didn’t like it one bit.

  Either Cal sensed Taran’s unease or he finally noticed what was happening.
He shot Taran a look. “Why’s it doing that?”

  Taran bristled at the question. “How should I know? Maybe it’s something to do with the Staff. It’s an Andaryan artifact, who knows what effect it might have? Let’s get this over with, Cal. The sooner that thing’s back where it belongs, the happier I’ll be.”

  Cal raised no argument and Taran turned back to the portway. Exerting his will, he drew power to activate it. The shimmer grew hazier, as it should, but the strange color intensified. Taran felt prickling down his spine and tried to ignore it. Gently, he put pressure on the portway. His usual method was to push with his metaforce, sending his power slowly through the Veils until they were breached.

  This time however, it didn’t work. The surface tension of the portway refused to give. He tried twice before withdrawing, frowning in puzzlement.

  “What’s wrong with it?” said Cal.

  Taran shook his head. “There’s resistance. Didn’t you say there was resistance when you tried to close the last one?”

  “Yes, but it was nothing like this. It didn’t turn that weird color, either.”

  “Alright, here’s what we’ll do. I’m going to try once more, but if that doesn’t work, I’m going to make a sudden thrust and break a hole just large enough to push the weapon through. Then we’ll back out and shut the portway. Ready?”

  Cal shrugged and nodded.

  Taran gathered his strength and pushed down on the portway. It refused to budge. With a swift warning to his Apprentice, he drove a needle of force at one spot in the center of the portway, directly over the Staff.

  There was a soundless detonation. Brilliant green light flooded the cellar and Taran and Cal were hurled violently against the walls. They struck forcefully and slumped to the ground, stunned.

  Taran was first to gather his wits. Alarmed, he saw the portway was swelling, glowing brighter, building toward an overload. He sprang to his feet in panic: if he lost control of it, the uncontained metaforce could kill them.

  “Quickly, Cal,” he yelled, dragging at his Apprentice, “help me shut it down!”

  Using all of Cal’s strength as well as his own, Taran tried to unravel the structure. It resisted him, the green glow deepening every second. “I’m going to break it,” he snapped. “Watch yourself.”

  His heart pounding, he aimed a bolt of their combined power against the portway. With a hideous shriek, it shattered, releasing uncontrolled energy that rebounded around the cellar. Taran and Cal dove to the floor, crouching as low as possible.

  When it finally dissipated, they struggled to their feet, the aftershock ringing in their aching ears.

  Cal stared around the cellar. “Bloody hell.”

  Plaster had been ripped from the walls and parts of the ceiling. The depression in the floor was much larger than before, and it was smoking.

  The Staff still lay in its place, completely untouched.

  Cal glanced at Taran, his dark eyes huge. As the dust of the explosion began to settle on them, Taran shook his head. This was beyond his experience and he spread his hands in hopelessness.

  “I think we should leave it, go back upstairs and padlock the door,” said Cal. “We need to think this through.”

  Taran could only agree.

  Heading for her last patient of the day, Rienne walked through the peaceful village. The pale autumn sunlight felt good on her back. She walked easily, her medicine bag light on her shoulder. Its lack of weight reminded her that she was getting low on supplies and she knew she ought to visit the herb seller in Shenton. However, she didn’t relish the exhausting ride on the elderly, badly sprung mail coach. Then she smiled, thinking perhaps she could get Cal to go for her.

  As she flipped the braid of her long dark hair over her shoulder, she considered how lucky she was. A responsible trained healer of twenty-five, she had found her vocation as well as her true love. Growing into a slim, attractive young woman out of an awkward childhood—she was the youngest child with four demanding older brothers—gray-eyed Rienne had eventually discovered a talent for healing. Once the long years of study and training were behind her, she had searched for a town or village lacking a local healer. Luck had brought her to Hyecombe, where she had met Cal. Just over a year later, she felt settled. She and Cal intended to marry one day, Taran had offered them a home, and Rienne was firmly established as Hyecombe’s healer.

  Life was looking good.

  She passed the bakery and emerged onto her own street. A small hamlet, Hyecombe only had two streets, but it did boast a tavern. Rienne made her way inside, pausing on the cool flagged floor to let her eyes adjust to the gloom.

  The main room was warm and smelled of smoke from the huge fireplace. Rienne threaded her way through the empty tables, making for the bar. As she passed the door to the little private room she saw a group of men inside, talking in low tones over jugs of malty ale. Clad in combat leathers with swords by their sides, they were obviously Kingsmen.

  She frowned, wondering what they were doing here. The military didn’t often visit Hyecombe. Before the civil war nine years ago, each local lord had responsibility for his own demesne and small villages like Hyecombe were protected by their own farmhands and laborers. However, once Prince Elias Rovannon quelled the uprising and killed those responsible for murdering his father, King Kandaran, he’d been determined not to suffer the same fate. So he changed the old order, and Lords men became Kingsmen. Garrisons were established throughout every province and trained swordsmen loyal to the Crown relieved farmhands and laborers of their protection duties.

  Now, each village had an appointed elder initially responsible for keeping order. Any issues too weighty for the elder to deal with were referred to the local garrison, but Rienne knew there had been no incidents in Hyecombe. So why had the Kingsmen come?

  Remembering why she was there, she put them out of her mind. “Paulus?” she called, slipping her bag from her shoulder.

  “In here, Rienne,” came the muffled reply.

  She walked through the door at the side of the bar into the storeroom behind. She smiled a greeting. “Evening, Paulus.”

  The storeroom smelled thickly of hops and malt, ale and old wood. The tavern-keeper, a balding man in his middle fifties with missing front teeth and work-roughened hands, looked up from the barrel he was scrubbing. His dour expression lightened as he saw her.

  “And a good evening to you, Rienne. How are you today?”

  He straightened, trying to suppress a grunt, but there was no fooling Rienne. She set her bag on the floor.

  “I’m fine, Paulus, which is more than can be said for you. That back looks bad. It’s been painful again, hasn’t it? You haven’t been following my advice.”

  He looked sheepish. “How do you do that? Been taking lessons from that young man of yours?”

  She wasn’t to be sidetracked. “Never mind Cal, where’s that assistant I told you to get?”

  Paulus ducked his head. “I’ve not found one yet. I can’t really afford to pay one, not on the amount of customers I get. Mind you, if I had more like that lot out there, it might be a different story.”

  Rienne’s skilful fingers explored the sore muscles in Paulus’ back. His hard-faced wife had left him over a year ago and he had been running the tavern alone ever since. Her acid comments and sour face were missed by no one—least of all her husband—but her strong arms and capable hands had at least relieved some of the burden.

  She stopped probing and turned to rummage in her bag. “What are they doing here?”

  He grimaced, massaging the small of his back. “There’s been some trouble farther south apparently and they’ve been sorting it out. Gods, but they can drink.”