The Godseeker Duet

by David A Willson

  They both chuckled.

  "What do you see?" Nara asked, looking directly into Anne's one good eye. How did she see so much, and what were her limits?

  "Sometimes I see what has happened… sometimes what is happening… still other times what will happen."

  Nara shifted on her stool.

  "You've seen things too," Anne said, "haven't you?"

  Nara nodded. "But just a feeling. Not like you."

  "If you practice, it will be clearer. I can show you."

  "Maybe," Nara said, turning away. The curiosity of her magic's limits had grown in recent days, but it came with fear. Fear that she would hurt others, the way her actions had hurt Mykel at the announcement. And fear that she would be different. She was already different enough. The indecision was frustrating. Indecision born of fear. Fear learned from a father who had sought to keep her hidden. Perhaps he was right and the fears brought safety, to others as much as to herself.

  "You can't escape it, Nara—your magic. Your destiny is an important one. You can't run from it."

  "I can try," Nara said softly, almost to herself.

  "Yes. You can try."

  They stopped talking, instead watching the sun finish its rise, full daylight flooding the sky and the earth below. Without another word, Nara left the porch and wandered into the woods, kicking at the twigs and underbrush. Anne had waited here for centuries, but for what? Or for whom? For Nara? Anne's words about Nara not being able to escape her role in the world seemed true enough. But they were also a call to something Nara was not yet ready for. She was more than a blessed, and much was certainly expected of someone like that. But she was just fifteen and shouldn't have to shoulder such a burden, should she? It didn't seem fair.

  She thought of her history lessons in school. The Oracle of Ankar had counseled the most powerful nobles in the realm and was thought to be largely responsible for the reconstruction of the Great Land after the mysterious end of the Breshi civilization. There were stories written about her and her lover, the Guardian, the battles they led, and the peace they had finally achieved. Many feared she would take the throne and rule the Great Land herself. In the end, her enemies rose up and executed her for heresy. Or so the histories said.

  The histories were wrong.

  Anne may be the oldest person on the planet, a figure of the ages, mentioned in scripture and who once sat at the right hand of kings. How wise is she? What things has she seen?

  Nara wondered why Anne was spending time with her, why Nara warranted the attention of such a person. She thought on her own magic and how it had always set her apart from others. Just how strong was it? What could it do?

  As she walked deeper into the woods, she thought again of the night, not so long ago, when she snuck into the church and imbued the ceppit. She couldn't seem to let go of her regret over that foolish act, the act of a silly girl who thought she could save her village from poverty. She now knew that she had tampered with powers that she could not understand.

  21

  Flay

  Fairmont

  Ministry of War and Justice

  Vorick sat in his office, frustrated with the day thus far. Efforts fared poorly on the frontier, and the town of Kavalin had now fallen to barbarian incursions. Chancellor Holland had learned of it first and had just spent half an hour in Vorick's chambers berating him about incompetence, poor leadership, and no vision for protecting royal resources. Vorick had been required to summon all his will to restrain from cutting the chancellor down for his foolish impertinence. The man may be chancellor, but he continued to breathe only because of Vorick's ability to manufacture patience.

  What might have happened if he had murdered Holland as the man stood there, red-faced and screaming? The queen would not have been pleased, nor would the council, but what could they really do about it? If they brought him up on criminal charges in a civilian court, Vorick would tamper with the proceedings. Wielding so much influence, it would be easy for him to sway the jurors. If they chose to charge him in a royal court-martial, the council would serve as the jurors. That would be even easier—many of the council ministers owed Vorick substantial sums of money.

  Vorick had been patient in recent years, but suffering lesser people was increasingly difficult and he often engaged in fantasies of forcefully seizing the chancery, or even the throne.

  His vainglorious daydream came to an abrupt end as he remembered the problems out west and the fact that his general was indisposed, unavailable to lead the troops. Vorick would be required to attend to Kavalin himself. Frustrating.

  Tired of dwelling on problems of state, he chose to think on more encouraging things. Perhaps this would be a good time to check on his latest project?

  He left the ministry hall and grabbed a chestnut palfrey from the hitching post outside. He hopped up onto the saddle and kicked the mount to a gallop, heading straight into Fairmont. A few minutes later, he arrived in front of a small, stone, single-story building in the craftsman's district. No sign adorned the front, its windows were boarded up, and the edifice looked scarcely bigger than a storage shack. Trusting this project to a single unguarded man was risky, but secrecy was paramount. Neither court nor council could know what they built.

  He tried the handle, but it was locked. He pounded his fist against the wooden door, announcing his presence. Moments later, it swung open, and a bearded, dust-covered man in his fifties held the door with one hand, an oddly shaped, steel tool grasped in his other.

  "Check before you open up!" Vorick pushed his way inside. "Don't just admit anyone who comes knocking!"

  "Sorry, sir."

  "Finished yet?"

  "Pretty close, Minister," the man answered, then latched the door after Vorick stepped inside.

  The work area comprised a single room. The only illumination came from a few strands of sunshine peeking through cracks in the boarded windows, assisted by a flickering lantern on a worktable. Vorick strained until his eyes became accustomed to the dark scene. Months had passed since he had last checked on the man's progress.

  "It's been a long time, sir," the man continued.

  "I'm here now."

  Vorick retrieved a piece of coral from a worktable. It was very light.

  "I hope you haven't wasted any more material," he said, putting the coral down again. "This stuff is hard to come by."

  "I've wasted a lot." He pointed to a bin in the back of the shop.

  Vorick stepped closer to notice oddly shaped pieces of bone and coral, along with piles of powder and shavings. He sighed, hoping the expense would be worth it.

  During his early efforts as a harvester, Vorick had learned that charging a cepp with energy drastically reduced its weight. He took to researching the matter at length to learn that a one-pound bone cepp lost more than ninety-five percent of its weight when fully charged, and that was just the beginning. The same cepp, when charged with energy, became as hard as steel. Rocks would shatter against the resilience of the imbued receptacle, and blades would glance off without leaving a mark.

  At first, he was amazed that nobody had exploited this before. Such a find would give one the ability to construct armor or fortifications of unspeakable strength. Then, the economic realities came to bear, and he understood the problem. Imbuing an entire suit of armor would take so much energy that one would be required to kill many human beings, a herd of cattle, or hundreds of trees to fill it. Harvesters would charge a fortune to complete such a task.

  A suit of imbued armor would weigh almost nothing, however, providing invulnerability and unlimited energy for its wielder's magic—a dream for one such as him. His own physical shortcomings prevented him from bearing the weight of chain or plate mail, but a light suit made of charged materials might be possible. Such power and legitimacy this armor might bring him. Not only in the minds of his peers, but in the eyes of his army.

  But he faced no mere engineering challenge. There was the issue of how to maintain the charge. Cepps le
aked, and so would armor.

  He experimented with materials for receptacles, learning that although crafters employed bone most often as a base material, which was far superior to wood, it still leaked too much. A simple unadorned bone cepp lost half of its energy in under a week, even if unused. Petrified wood cepps, although stylish in court, retained the energy no better than bone.

  But coral was different. Although brittle when initially cut from the reef and remaining so until charged with power, coral became more resilient than bone once filled with energy. And coral retained the magic. Once filled, coral cepps lost very little energy over time, maintaining most of their magic even a month after being charged.

  Unfortunately, coral was more precious than gold. Prized as a premium material for manufacturing cepps, the richest of the gifted nobles snatched up the material when available, making it exceedingly rare. Vorick purchased some but never found large enough pieces to fashion armor plates and soon realized he would have to hire someone to search for a fresh source. Five years of costly exploration passed before his contracted divers found a generous reef off the southern coast and cut the materials he needed. Fortunately, Vorick had acquired a vast fortune, accumulated over the years, initially through his harvesting efforts, but later through his business ventures. When the only blessed in the land declares himself your business partner, wealthy men comply and fork over their profits.

  As the Minister of War and Justice, he had access to the best craftsmen. This was detailed work, however, and choosing the right armorer for this project was imperative. Fashioning a suit of coral armor would seem like madness to most men, and Vorick took care with those he had approached. After much deliberation, he chose Master Declan Triff, a hairy, unmarried, middle-aged man who had opened his own shop years ago. Lords and knights knew Triff not only for his hardy suits of armor but also for the beauty of his work. In Vorick's estimation, the man thought of himself less as an armorer and more an artist, displaying patience for fine craftsmanship that Vorick could take confidence in. He had not been disappointed.

  Through trial, error, and the waste of thousands of gold crowns in discarded materials, Vorick and Triff worked in this secret location with large chunks of red coral that the minister charged with a small amount of power. They sought a delicate balance, charging the materials enough to withstand the crafting process without breaking, yet still brittle enough to be shaved and molded. After several years, the armor was nearing completion.

  The crafting process had not come without frustration. While Vorick wanted his treasure to be completely fashioned of coral, practicality had intruded. Triff complained about not having enough access to Vorick, who traveled often on ministry business, making him unavailable to charge or drain a certain piece to the level necessary for the work. When fastening pieces together, there was often a part that needed to be installed and some shaving that needed to be done. To accommodate this, Triff used uncharged bone pieces, primarily around the edges where the plates of coral met one another in hinges, hooks, and catches.

  Then there was the undershirt.

  One could not wear any sort of armor without a layer of protection beneath. A layer of heavy padding guarded the wearer against the chafing and damage caused by chain or heavy steel. The sharp edges of coral presented an even greater threat. Unfortunately, the padding required would need to be thick and cumbersome. If not overcome, the genius of Vorick's project would be for naught.

  Silk was the answer.

  Soft and comfortable, tailors employed the costly material to craft the most elite fashions. One would find silk dresses and shirts on the richest of nobles, but it was far too fragile to withstand direct contact with coral. Unless it was charged with magic.

  Silk was a natural material produced by living things—worms. In that, it shared a similarity to wood, coral, or bone, and its nature allowed the storage of energy. That energy then strengthened it. Silk bled out quickly and needed to be charged often, but that presented no problem for a harvester like Vorick. The armor itself was capable of holding so much power that bleeding small amounts to keep the silk strong would be of little consequence.

  In the end, they had fashioned a devastating tool that would be nearly weightless, yet impervious to physical blows. And comfortable—or at least they hoped so. When Vorick first donned the armor, they needed pulleys and ropes to bear the weight of the thing so he wouldn't be crushed underneath.

  "Is it in the closet?" Vorick asked.

  "Yes," Triff said, pointing to a locked door in the back of the shop. Vorick worked the hasps to pull the door open. Triff brought the lantern closer, illuminating the small room.

  "Took me an hour to move by myself," Triff said.

  The suit hung on pegs drilled into the stone blocks of the back wall. The light danced in the chamber, flashing off the plates of armor, caressing the red coral, unveiling hints of the skeletal armature and giving an ominous appearance. It was armor like no other, the most powerful protection in the realm. And easily the most expensive.

  But it remained heavy. Vorick wondered if it would be possible to don the armor and walk anywhere at all under the load.

  Reaching out and touching the plates, he sensed the magic inside. There was some magic, but the armor was mostly empty. He had drained the stored energy in his bracer cepps many times to fill the coral plates enough to work with them but not yet enough to make the armor wearable. Filling it completely would take a huge sacrifice. Perhaps he could march into a poor district of this town, slaughter thirty or forty beggars, and the deed would be done.

  But he would suffer a cost for that kind of slaughter—a blow to his reputation and perhaps even the loss of the church's approval. That was unacceptable. A legitimate way to harvest human beings would be difficult to find, however. Then he realized his foolishness. The perfect opportunity was staring him in the face.

  War.

  He would take the armor out west, lead the charge against the barbarians in Kavalin, and the project would be finished.

  "It's ready," Vorick said, still looking at the armor, Triff at his back. "And I'm taking it."

  "Sir, there are still too many bone hinges and hooks. I have been replacing them with coral, but you said…"

  "It's ready!" Vorick cut him off, still staring at the majestic suit of armor, imagining its potential.

  Triff put down the file and the piece of coral he was working on. "Yes, sir."

  Vorick turned around and faced Triff. "And the sword?"

  "In the corner."

  Vorick turned back with the lantern and moved to the corner of the armor closet. A blade and scabbard leaned against the wall.

  As beautiful and powerful as the armor had become, this was the prize that seized Vorick's fancy. A sword symbolized strength, and men wore swords to assert their authority and station. While he often carried a thin rapier at his side, Vorick was useless in swordplay. He couldn't move quickly enough, couldn't leap forward to direct a thrust or dance sideways to avoid one from an opponent. His sword served primarily as an ornament, and he would lose a duel with even the most incompetent of swordsmen unless he employed magic.

  But this sword was different, having been decorated with a special rune.

  He came upon the rune years ago after acquiring an old copy of the scriptures First Light. In that manuscript, he found a design that looked familiar to him. The text of the scriptures spoke of how the earth was formed from the darkness of chaos. In the margin near this passage stood a beautiful but simple pattern, inked with a fine pen. It wasn't a perfect analogue, but it had been very similar to the pattern he often saw in his mind when he used his cutting talent. The chaos rune.

  One day a few years ago, he was experimenting with the resilience of magic-infused bone and marveled at how well bone knives held an edge after being filled with energy. On a whim, he drained the knife of energy and carved the rune from First Light into the side of a dull blade. The rune was not complex, and although he had not dev
eloped a marked skill with inscription, he had seen the design in his mind for years and possessed a strong sense of how to shape it.

  Etching the pattern on the blade did nothing at first. Once the blade was charged, however, the dull knife became devastating. When pressed against a surface, it destroyed flesh, wood, and even iron. He had transferred a gift to a physical object!

  Oh, it wasn't refined in its effect. The blade didn't cut like a razor, not the way Vorick had learned to employ his talent. The weapon didn't cut at all, actually. Without a mind to direct the power, the knife simply disrupted everything it touched, tearing materials apart, and leaving destruction behind. The damage it inflicted reminded Vorick of early experiments with his talent as a teenager when he would bruise flesh or objects, or even liquefy them. Still, steel breastplates and leather cuirasses would become like butter under a blade such as this.

  The implications of the discovery were at first wondrous but rapidly became a concern for him. If such weapons were created, they would make an adversary much more formidable, minimizing his own advantage. He resolved to keep this a secret and promptly destroyed the experimental blade.

  Now, however, he had need for a sword to complement his suit of armor.

  Although Triff was no weaponsmith, he was wonderfully talented, and Vorick had come to trust him to a degree. Besides, revealing these secrets to another craftsman was a risk; Vorick wished to bring no more into his confidence. One really should hire a weaponsmith for sword-making, but the challenges associated with crafting a powerful sword were more often in the development of alloys, of weight and balance, and the ability for the steel to maintain a fine edge. None of these would be a problem with this sword, so Triff's skills were sufficient.

  The craftsman's attention to fine detail was a blessing, and the ivory sword he fashioned was a beauty. Almost three feet long and carved from the tusk of a walrus, it was a work of art. A giant ruby graced the pommel, and ornate scrollwork danced along the slightly curved blade above the rune that was engraved near the hilt.