“You should go,” said Rachaelis. “If the seneschal or his men find you here, they’ll have you beaten.”
The Jurgur stared at her, mouth working. There were fresh cuts on his jaw, she saw, cuts that had only just scabbed over. Rachaelis had the strangest sense that he had been trying to sneak up on her. But what on earth for?
Then his expression hardened, and he lifted the thing in his hand to his lips.
A blowgun.
Rachaelis shoved off the stool. She hit the floor hard, landing on her already sore hip, and an instant later something blurred over her head, burying itself in the side of her father’s bed. A dart, she saw, its head smeared with some sort of yellowish paste.
The Jurgur gaped at her in consternation, and she realized that the man was trying to kill her.
He sprinted into the room with a yell and seized her by the arms. Rachaelis struggled, but he stood a foot taller and outweighed her by a hundred pounds, and his grip was like iron. He threw her against her father’s bed, reached into his tunic, and drew out a sponge dripping with some sort of fluid. The smell made Rachaelis gag; it was a medicine that surgeons brewed up, to put their patients to sleep. She tried to twist free, but the Jurgur held her pinned in place as he lowered the sponge towards her face.
Then Rachaelis’s shock and terror vanished, replaced by cold clarity. To survive the Testing, only to get killed by a Jurgur slave?
Was she an Adept or was she not?
She slapped her palm against the man’s chest and summoned power.
Azure fire erupted from his back and lashed against the wall.
###
A few hours later Rachaelis sat in a couch in Magister Nazim’s study, arms folded tight about her.
The windows had a fine view of the Ring’s grounds, and Nazim decorated the room with objects from his native Khauldun. Curved daggers adorned the shelves, their blade inlaid with intricate patterns, resting alongside scrolls covered in ornate calligraphy. Carpets hung from the walls, woven in dizzying patterns.
The slave boy Rachaelis had rescued from the overseer sat huddled in one corner, nose buried in a book. Nazim had been teaching him to read. Arthain would have been scandalized.
The door opened, and Sword-Captain Marvane walked into the room, helmet under one arm.
“Well?” said Nazim, looking up from his desk.
“His name was Mabignon,” said Marvane. “A Jurgur, like you said. The seneschal bought him six months ago. No useful skills. Truculent fellow, too; he’d been whipped three times in the last month alone.”
“What about that dart?” said Rachaelis.
“There was poison on the tip,” said Marvane. “Not lethal, though. A paralytic. Crooked innkeepers use it, sometimes; they’ll spike the drinks and rob a man blind when his limbs freeze up.”
“So he wasn’t trying to kill Rachaelis,” said Nazim, “but capture her.”
“Capture?” said Marvane, blinking. “If you say so, Magister.”
“What do you think this was about, Sword-Captain?” said Nazim.
Marvane shrugged. “I don’t rightly know. But rape, if I had to guess. Forgive my bluntness, Magister, but Lady Morulan is a pretty young thing, and a man gets it into his head that he wants a certain woman…well, he’s liable to do stupid things. Especially if the woman’s out of his reach.”
“Like a slave and an Adept, for instance?” said Nazim.
“Aye,” said Marvane.
“Thank you, Sword-Captain,” said Nazim. “Please let us know if you discover anything else.”
Marvane bowed and left them room.
“What do you think?” said Nazim.
“I don’t know,” said Rachaelis. “I’d never seen this Mabignon before in my life, I’m sure of it.” She hugged herself tighter, thinking it over. “Marvane’s right. He must have wanted to…to force me. But…he seemed terrified.”
“Facing an angry Adept can frighten the bravest of men,” said Nazim.
“He was trying to sneak up on me,” said Rachaelis, voice distant. “Which meant he knew that I would be there.” She blinked. “Someone told him that I would be there?”
“He may have been lying in wait,” said Nazim. “It’s well-known that you often visit your father alone.” He sighed. “This is troubling. Marvane’s explanation makes the most sense. And yet…no. There must have been something else going on.”
“I think you’re right,” said Rachaelis. “I’m not a child. I know what it’s like when a man stares at you.” Not the she had ever been with a man, but she knew what it was like to be stared at. “And I didn’t get that impression at all. He didn't...he didn't want me. He was too scared of me for that. He was forcing himself to face me. I thought he was going to run away.” She remembered the corpse sliding to the floor, chest a charred crater. “It would have been better if he had.”
“Do you think he had any grudge against you?” said Nazim. “The Jurgurs have – or had, anyway – a brutal code of honor.”
“I can’t see how,” said Rachaelis. “I’d never seen him before.”
“What about a relative of his?” said Nazim.
“Possibly,” said Rachaelis. “But…I avoid the slaves whenever possible. I won’t use them. If I did offend his family, it must have been something I didn’t even realize.”
Nazim sighed. “This is…a very strange business. Perhaps Marvane was right. But I do not think so. A slave attacking an Adept with a paralytic and a sleeping drug? Very strange. I doubt Mabignon could have planned this on his own. For the next few weeks, I would like to have some Swords accompany you. Sword-Captain Marvane, I think. At least until I can get to the bottom of this.”
Rachaelis nodded. “What should I do now?”
“Now?” said Nazim. “Now you go to Thalia’s rooms. She is most eager to plan a banquet in your honor, after all.”
Chapter 2 - Father and Son
Corthain took a rented coach to the tower of House Kalarien. He would have preferred to walk, but no doubt his father would have taken umbrage, as a son of House Kalarien did not walk the streets among lesser men. Rikon and three of his guardsmen walked alongside the coach. Corthain had left Luthair at the Silver Coin Inn. Luthair's counsel would have been welcome, but his barbed tongue might enrage Arthain.
And Corthain did not want to enrage his father.
The coach rattled to a stop, and Rikon opened the door.
“My lord?” said the old soldier. “We’re here.”
Corthain nodded, gathered his coat around him, and descended to the street. He had worn his best clothes, a knee length black coat, gleaming black boots, a white linen shirt that Morwen had spent all night laundering. His sword rested on his right hip. No doubt Arthain would take offense, since it was not an Araspani cortana, but Corthain went nowhere without his sword.
Corthain strode into the tower's grounds, ignoring the Swords standing guard at the gate. Orange-clad slaves carried tables and chairs, while others raised tents. It looked as if they were preparing for a celebration.
Somehow Corthain doubted it was in his honor.
A plump woman in an orange slave’s robe hurried over and bowed. “Does your servant have the honor of addressing Lord Corthain, Domn of Moiria?”
“You do,” said Corthain.
“Magister Arthain will see you in his study,” said the slave. “Please, permit your servant to escort you to his presence. Ah…Magister Arthain wishes your guards to remain outside, though.”
Rikon scowled.
“Very well,” said Corthain. “Wait for me here.”
Rikon did not look happy, but nodded.
“A celebration is being planned, I see?” said Corthain as he followed the slave woman to the tower’s red bulk.
“Yes, my lord,” said the slave. “Lady Thalia sponsored an Initiate in the Testing, and the Initiate survived the ordeal to become an Adept. It is traditional for the sponsor to hold a banquet on such a joyous occasion.”
“Yes,” said Corthain. �
��I know.”
The slave flinched as if he had struck her. “Forgive your servant’s presumption, my lord.”
“No, it’s all right,” said Corthain. He wondered how often Arthain had struck her. “Please, just take me inside.”
The slave woman bowed her head and led him to the tower's main hall. The exterior of the tower might have been sheathed in red marble, but within the hall was snowy white stone, all polished and gleaming. A dozen memories struck Corthain all at once. Eating dinner. Solthain showing him how to use a sword. Hiding from his father’s anger.
What the hell was he doing here? There was nothing for Corthain here, not any more.
His men. His domnium. His people needed the trade with Araspan, and Arthain Kalarien could destroy that.
“My lord?” said the slave woman, and Corthain realized that he had stopped.
“Nothing,” he said. “Let’s go.”
His father’s study occupied the top floor. The slave woman opened the door and bowed.
“Lord Corthain to see you, Magister,” said the woman.
“So I see,” said Arthain Kalarien. “Leave us.”
The slave bowed and departed, and Corthain walked into his father’s study.
It looked much as he remembered. The same tall windows with the splendid view of the city, the same massive desk, the same shelves with books and scrolls and odd curiosities from the Conclave’s history. There was one addition, though. A narrow wooden table held a cortana upon a polished bronze stand, a cortana with a charred blade and a scorched ivory hilt.
Solthain’s cortana. Above the cortana, a portrait hung from the wall, Solthain’s portrait, showing him clad in the formal robes of an Adept.
Arthain stood by the windows, looking at the grounds. His hair was somewhat grayer, and the lines in his face deeper, but otherwise twelve years had changed him little. His cold green eyes turned away from the window, and suddenly Corthain felt ten years old again.
He pushed the feeling aside. In the last twelve years, he had survived worse things than his father’s displeasure. Dozens of skirmishes as a mercenary. Dark River. The legions of ghouls rising from the slain. He could survive this.
They stared at each other for a moment.
“So,” said Arthain at last. “You’ve returned.”
“I have,” said Corthain.
Arthain shrugged. “You’re within your rights. Your banishment was for ten years. Had you returned before that, I would have ordered your execution. But now you are free to come and go.”
“So good to know,” said Corthain.
His father turned away from the window. “And you’re dressed as a Callian lord, I see. I suppose the Callian King has taken you in and given you a title? Perhaps the lordship over some barren stretch of wasteland?”
“Moiria, actually,” said Corthain. “By the coast. Pleasant country, if rather hilly.”
“Nor are you wearing a proper cortana,” said Arthain, eyes flicking to the sword, “but some antique of the Old Empire. A curious choice.”
“An antique, true,” said Corthain, “but an antique sharper and stronger than any spell-forged cortana. The Adepts of the Conclave are not the equal of the Old Empire’s master smiths.”
Arthain gave no response to the insult. “Where did you find it? I suppose it’s only natural that you turned to grave robbing to support yourself.”
“The body of a Jurgur chieftain, actually,” said Corthain. “After the Battle of Dark River.”
Arthain snorted. “Yes, I heard about that. Apparently you found employment leading a band of ignorant rabble in exchange for gold. Certainly a worthy occupation for a son of House Kalarien.”
“It’s turned out rather well,” said Corthain, “considering this son of House Kalarien is not welcome in Araspan.”
His father’s lip twitched. “You did whatever looked after your own interests, boy. You always did. No matter the cost to your family.”
Corthain's temper flared, but he clamped it down.
“So,” said Arthain. “You’re here. Tell me. Why have you returned?” He paced to his desk and sat down. “To claim your inheritance, is it? You needn’t have bothered. I disinherited you. Solthain was my proper heir, but since your poor decisions got him killed, Thalia is my heir. All the properties and titles of House Kalarien shall pass to her. Not to you.”
“I didn’t come for a single copper coin of your money,” said Corthain. “And Solthain’s own poor decisions got him killed. If he’d listened to me, he might still be alive.”
Arthain’s nostrils flared. For a moment Corthain wondered if his father would strike him, or lash out with a spell.
“Then,” he said at last, “why have you come to Araspan?”
“To sell wine,” said Corthain.
Arthain blinked. Whatever answer he had been expecting, clearly that hadn’t been it. “To sell…wine?”
“The King of Callia made me domn of Moiria after Dark River,” said Corthain. “The freeholders of my lands are mostly vintners. They rely upon trade with other nations, and had no agreements with anyone in Araspan. And I recall watching the Adepts. They had quite a thirst. I thought that perhaps I might find opportunities here.”
“So you’ve returned to Araspan,” said Arthain, incredulous, “simply to sell wine?”
“I already said that,” said Corthain. “Will you interfere?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Arthain with a contemptuous wave of his hand. “Matters of commerce are far beneath the attention of a Magister of the Conclave and an Araspani nobleman. Though I am not surprised that you have sunk to such a level.”
“Then why did you think I came back to Araspan?” said Corthain. “Surely not for the pleasure of your conversation.”
“To steal your sister’s inheritance, of course,” said Arthain. “The lordship of House Kalarien is worth far more than the lordship of drunken farmers in a barbarous nation like Callia. I would have enjoyed denying you, of course.” He sneered again, and laughed. “But if you are happy as a Callian domn…well, far be it from me to deny you that honor. Such as it is.”
Corthain felt his temper start to give way, but he was past caring. “I would rather be a Callian domn than an Araspani lord. And it’s just as well Thalia will inherit the title, since I would reject it anyway.”
Arthain’s eyes narrowed. “Oh? Why is that?”
“Because a Callian domn does not live upon the labor of his slaves,” said Corthain. “I’d forgotten what a cesspool this city is. Filled with miserable slaves, ripped from their homes, forced to labor and die far from their families.”
“I see you remain blind as ever,” said Arthain. “Those slaves were taken from barbarous, uncivilized lands. They might well have starved to death, or perished in the endless wars between petty lords and petty princelings. Here they are housed, clothed, fed, and given useful work. And here their lives have purpose. Had they been left in their homelands, they would have had no purpose but to feed themselves, breed, and die. Here, they can support the work of the Conclave.”
“Oh, yes, the noble work of the Conclave,” said Corthain. “Yes, I’ve seen the noble work the Conclave does in the nations of the West. How your Adepts run roughshod over anyone who stands in their way. And how they kidnap children from their homes.”
Arthain rose from his chair. “The Conclave has treaties with the nations of the West, including your precious Callia. What we do is perfectly legal.”
“Legal is not the same as right,” said Corthain.
“In this case, it is,” said Arthain. His voice remained level, but the veins in his temples throbbed. “The Conclave has both the right and the duty to take any child with magical talent for training. The fact that we must often take them against the will of their parents is simply a reflection of the parents’ own ignorance. Children with the talent must be trained by the Conclave, for their own good, and the good of those around them. An untrained child is a danger to himself and othe
rs, and he might even draw demons into the world.”
“A convenient justification,” said Corthain.
Arthain slapped the desk. “Are you so blind as to doubt the reality of demons, boy?”
“Hardly. I have seen ghouls with my own eyes. Thousands of them at once, in fact,” said Corthain. He leaned over the desk, his voice cold and sharp. “I doubt the ability of your precious Conclave to do anything to stop demons.”
“You speak of things you do not understand,” said Arthain.
“Do I?” said Corthain. “I’ve spent the last twelve years wandering from the West to the South and back again. I’ve seen more ghouls than I care to remember. I’ve seen living men possessed by demons. And I have seen thousands of slain men rise from the battlefield as ghouls. There were Adepts at Dark River, or had you forgotten? Once the horde was broken, the Adepts left, rather than deal with the ghouls. Most of eastern Rhomaria is still ghoul-haunted, and no one in their right mind goes there.”
“If you had not wanted so many ghouls to deal with,” said Arthain, “then perhaps you should not have killed so many Jurgurs.” He barked out a short, bitter laugh. “And you have the nerve to lecture me about a few slaves when you have the blood of thousands, tens of thousands, upon your hands.”
“And far more would have died had the Jurgur horde not been defeated,” said Corthain. “Were you there? Somehow I doubt it. You didn’t see what the Jurgurs did to their victims. You didn’t see the children nailed to crosses, or the men hung by their own entrails, or the women staked out naked to the ground. The Jurgurs would have turned all the West into a ghoul-haunted charnel house had they not been stopped. And they were stopped, with precious little help from your Adepts…and your Adepts could not even be bothered to help deal with the ghouls. Since your primary duty is to stop the demons, after all.”
“I told you not speak of things you do not understand,” said Arthain, his voice starting to rise. “You had no magical talent, none. The first son of House Kalarien in twenty generations not to have magical talent! What a disappointment you were. What a waste! Little wonder you were first a coward, and then have thrown your lot in with foreign rabble. Solthain understood. Solthain would have understood, and not become…”
The Third Soul Omnibus One Page 8
