King's Artesan: Artesans of Albia trilogy (Artesans Series Book 3)

by Cas Peace

  Now, gathered in Sullyan and Robin’s chambers, they sat gazing at the Staff which lay on the table, innocently gleaming in the firelight. Rienne shuddered at the sight of it. Taran could hardly bear to look at it, no doubt remembering how he had felt when using it.

  Robin, however, saw things in a very different light and sat staring hungrily at the artifact. “So, what happens now?”

  Sullyan sighed, not sharing Robin’s optimism. “For the moment,” she said, “I am not thinking past Vanyr’s funeral. Once that is over, I will have much to discuss with Timar and Deshan. And Taran.”

  The Adept started then flushed. Robin frowned at him before turning back to Sullyan. “But what do you need to discuss? Surely you can use the Staff as you did Rykan’s life force? Why should you need to talk to Taran?”

  Hearing the tiniest hint of jealousy in his voice, Sullyan closed her eyes. “Because Taran is the only person living who has used the Staff. I will need him to tell me everything he can remember. This final process will not be simple. You recall how difficult it was for me to purge the poison? Well, that was the easy part.”

  Robin turned pale, memories of the agony and anguish she had gone through passing across his features. She smiled ruefully at him, understanding his confusion.

  “The rest of the poison is lodged deep in my soul. It has become part of my being. I do not know if it is possible to remove it now, and even if it is, there is a danger I might damage my psyche.”

  Robin looked shocked. “What? You never told me that! I thought once you had the Staff—”

  “It would be a simple matter of using it to burn out the poison? No, Robin. I wish it was, but the truth is, it might not be possible at all.”

  An uneasy silence fell.

  Holding Robin’s dark and troubled gaze, Sullyan said, “I did not tell you this before because I do not know what will happen. Something like this has never been done before. I might not even be strong enough to make the attempt. If it is possible, it will be very arduous. And there could be other … complications.”

  “Complications? What complications?” Robin’s optimism drained away. He had clearly thought that gaining the Staff was the final battle. Now she was telling him the war was far from over.

  She shook her head. “I do not know yet. I must discuss it with Timar and Deshan. Let us not dwell on it now. Tomorrow will be a sad day. Let us honor a good man and a true friend and leave the other matter for later. It will keep.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Vanyr’s funeral was a state occasion held on a bright, clear day with the promise of spring. Sullyan and Robin were to be part of the honor guard accompanying the bier and felt privileged to be so included. The Major had also been asked to participate in the ceremony itself, along with Pharikian, Anjer, and Barrin. She had demurred at first, protesting that it was Ephan’s place, but he had been more than happy for her to represent him as he was not fully recovered from the substrate blast.

  At midday they gathered in the courtyard. Vanyr’s body once again lay on a bier drawn by two white horses, the Hierarch’s standard covering his form. Sullyan and Robin, mounted on Drum and Torka, fell in beside Pharikian, Anjer, and Barrin. Rienne, Taran, and Bull were traveling with Marik in Idrimar’s carriage while Ephan and Baron Gaslek, the Hierarch’s secretary, traveled together in another. The rest of the palace household followed.

  As the cavalcade passed through the north gate, the horns of the Velletian Guard resounded in honor of Torman Vanyr. To the north of the Citadel a small hill could be seen, crowned with an ancient ring of standing stones. Within this ring a huge pyre had been built, and toward this hill they wound their way. The towering monoliths dwarfed even the tallest mourners. Those with the power to sense it could feel their elemental puissance singing through their souls.

  The bier drew to a halt beside the pyre. Six Guardsmen lifted Vanyr’s body and placed it on the platform above the logs. The Hierarch’s standard was removed and Sullyan saw that Vanyr had been well-prepared for this farewell. Someone had carefully washed his damaged face, making it as presentable as possible. A light strip of cloth covered the ruin of his eyes, and his face appeared calm. He was dressed in ceremonial uniform, his sword lying on his breast. One of the honor guard reached up to remove it but Sullyan held up her hand. “Let it be.”

  The guard frowned at her. “Lady, it won’t burn. And we can’t leave it here. It will be taken to be melted down by the swordsmith.”

  Sullyan glanced at Pharikian and received his nod. “Let it be,” she repeated, and the guard shrugged, removing his hand.

  The honor guard stationed themselves around the crest of the hill just outside the circle, enclosing the pyre and those who stood near it. The Hierarch, Anjer, Sullyan, and Barrin took their places, one at each corner of the pyre, with the four Cardinal Stones at their backs. After a reflective pause, Pharikian raised his head and addressed the assembly. He spoke of Vanyr, telling how he had come to be in his ruler’s service and what that service had meant. The Hierarch told them that in honor of Vanyr’s bravery, he was posthumously awarding him the rank of Artesan Adept. Sullyan saw many heads nod in recognition.

  Anjer took up the tale, speaking of Vanyr’s military career and training, his leadership and battle strategy, and his weaponry skills. Barrin followed the Lord General, and he spoke of serving under Vanyr; how the commander had discharged his duties and trained his men, and how he was respected by all who had served with him.

  Then it was Sullyan’s turn, and she spoke of friendship and loyalty, trust and love. She made no effort to hide her feelings, and there was many a damp eye when she was finished. There was a final stirring fanfare from the trumpeters, and Vanyr’s warhorse, a large liver-chestnut stallion which had been brought back from Albia by Robin, suddenly raised its head and pealed out a long call to its fallen rider. The trumpets fell silent and the Hierarch gestured for Barrin to begin.

  The Lieutenant stood at the western Cardinal, representing Earth. Raising his arms, he said, “Torman Vanyr, tutor and Commander. By the power of Earth, we honor you.”

  Barrin called power from the stones and it thrummed through them, rumbling under the mourners’ feet. Pharikian nodded his approval and Barrin lowered his arms.

  Anjer stood at the northern Cardinal, representing Water. He too raised his arms. “Torman Vanyr, Commander and battle leader. By the power of Water, we honor you.”

  Anjer’s hold and control caused a great wreath of mist to form in the air around the pyre. Glittering in the sunlight, it slowly settled onto Vanyr’s body, bedewing him with pearly drops. They shimmered in the light before fading. Bowing his head, Anjer lowered his arms.

  Sullyan stood for the east, representing Fire. Lifting her clear voice, she almost sang the words. “Torman Vanyr, true friend, giver of life by your sacrifice. With the power and force of Fire, I honor you.”

  Sullyan’s power rushed through the circle as she summoned Fire from its source. Tiny flames appeared in the air over Vanyr’s body, slowly settling to touch his face, his hands, his breast. Fingers of flame appeared at each corner of the pyre, dancing around the logs but not yet consuming them.

  With Sullyan’s Fire unquenched, the Hierarch raised his voice. “Torman Vanyr, Artesan Adept, loyal and true subject. We bid you farewell. We send you on your journey buoyed by the powers of Earth, Water, Fire, and Air. We honor your memory and commend you to the powers that be. Torman Vanyr, with the power of Air, we honor you!”

  A great roaring assailed their ears as the Hierarch of Andaryon, Senior Master Artesan, called Air. A warm, strong wind raced toward the hill at great speed, flowing through, around, and over the mourners. It caught at Sullyan’s Fire as it danced among the logs. All at once, with a vast, hungry roar, the wood ignited. Fanned by Air and fed by Earth, flames rocketed into the sky. It was spectacular but confined as the flames fed hungrily on the seasoned logs. The power of Earth, drawn from the western Cardinal Stone, roared sunwise around the anc
ient circle, the ground shuddering and quaking with force. The air within wept a fine mist.

  Within minutes, the pyre was consumed. It fell in on itself, showering sparks. Reaching out again, Sullyan caused the flames to rage even hotter, melting and vaporizing the steel of Vanyr’s sword. Melding with his bones, it would travel with him on his final journey.

  Glancing again at Pharikian, Sullyan reached out her right hand. He smiled and took it. Linked, they pooled their strength, and the watchers saw a tiny, perfectly-formed funnel of Air appear directly over the pile of ash. It swirled sunwise until, gently, it touched the ash, whirling it up into a spiral. Black eyes ringed with gold and slit-pupilled yellow eyes watched and controlled the spiral together as it broke away from the earth, ascending high into the sky above their heads. Then, with a wisp of thought, it was borne away by a swift wind, disappearing to scatter over the forests to the east.

  *****

  Later that same afternoon, Pharikian came to Brynne Sullyan where she sat with her friends in the chambers she shared with Robin. The Captain had reported back to Blaine, telling him that the Staff was not lost and promising to keep him informed of any developments. Blaine reported that Cal had arrived safely back at the Manor and was in the capable hands of Chief Healer Hanan, who had confidently predicted he would make a full recovery. Dexter had told the General of the trouble caused by Captain Parren, but Blaine wished to speak with Robin privately before he would consider taking any action. He saw no need to address the problem while Robin was absent from the Manor. Robin was content with that.

  Determined to ensure that Taran and Bull would be fully fit to return to the Manor, Sullyan had just finished an intense healing session when Norkis, Pharikian’s page, tapped at the door. Bull’s heart was stronger and his burns were fading. Taran’s knife wound was healing well and there was no trace of infection to prevent him from traveling. Her own hurts were also improving. The bones of her left wrist had knitted well and she had more control over her fingers. The back of the hand was shiny and pink with new flesh, and she had at last been able to replace Robin’s ring on her middle finger. She could not yet tell whether she would regain full use of the hand and suffered pangs of regret when she thought she might never again play her harp, but she wasn’t going to give up until she knew she had done all she could. She fully intended to start gentle sword practice the next day.

  As Norkis bowed Pharikian into the room, they all stood. Waving them down, he said, “We are all friends here, and I have had quite enough formality for one day.”

  He accepted the fellan Bull passed him, and sat on the couch next to Rienne. He had developed a liking for her in the few days he had known her, and Deshan had told him how highly he rated her healing skills. Smiling at her, he asked, “How is your young man doing, my dear? Well, I hope. I would like the chance to meet him one day.”

  Rienne assured him of Cal’s recovery, and he nodded in relief. Then his expression clouded and he glanced at Sullyan where she sat in the circle of Robin’s arms by the fire.

  “Brynne, my child, we have much to discuss concerning Rykan’s Staff. Both Deshan and I have thoughts on the matter. However, I have come to ask if you would consider waiting one more day. I have just received word that my son is returning from the north tomorrow, and considering what Rykan would have done had he won his challenge, this is a doubly welcome event. My people will expect a celebration, especially after the sadness of Vanyr’s passing. I know that my son is keen to meet you, and a day of relaxation, music, good company, and cheer is just what we all need after the events of the past few weeks.

  “What do you say, Brynne? I shall understand if you would prefer not to delay. Both Deshan and I can spare some time today to begin our discussions, but I had hoped you would not mind too much waiting until after Aeyron’s return.”

  Sullyan smiled, guilty relief stealing through her. “Timar, I would be honored indeed to meet Prince Aeyron. How could I deny your people their celebration? They are right to rejoice at the safe return of your Heir, and I would not miss his first meeting with Ty Marik, nor his reaction when the Princess asks his permission to marry! A day of celebration would be welcome indeed, for each and every one of us has much to be thankful for. Except, perhaps, the Lady Falina.”

  The Hierarch’s face clouded at the mention of General Kryp’s widow. “Yes,” he agreed sadly, “she has been inconsolable. But Aeyron was always a favorite of hers, so perhaps his arrival will cheer her.

  “Very well, Brynne. You are all invited—no, required—to attend tomorrow’s festivities, and we will save our conversation for the day after, when you will have our full attention. I believe Deshan has something particular to say concerning your … circumstances.”

  She gave him an enquiring look, but he shook his head. “It’s no use asking me, child, he hasn’t told me what it is. We will have to wait, but I am sure he will tell you when he is ready.”

  *****

  The feast day was a balm and a tonic to all. The fears and frustrations, fighting and killing, were all forgotten as the entire Citadel gave itself up to celebrating the Heir’s return. When Rykan’s hostile intentions had become clear, Pharikian had immediately sent the young man into Morvaigne, the mountainous region ruled by Tikhal, the Lord of the North. Now, his homecoming was seen as the final promise of peace in the realm.

  Pharikian spent much of the morning on the Tower battlements, eagerly watching for the cavalcade heralding his son’s imminent arrival. Sullyan joined him in the cool spring sunshine, accompanied by her friends. It was mid-morning before they finally heard the trumpets and caught sight of the banners carried by the heralds riding in the fore. The pale sun glinted from swords and lances, and Sullyan was surprised at the size of the party. The banners proclaimed that Lord Tikhal himself had accompanied the Heir, bringing a large number of his own household to swell the Prince’s retinue. There must have been over three hundred people in their entourage.

  The Prince and the Lord of the North rode at the head of the company, just behind the heralds. They were surrounded by an honor guard whose cloaks bore the colors of both noble Houses, and whose rank badges shone in the sunlight. The horses were caparisoned in the colors of their riders’ families, and there was a palpable air of gaiety and festivity over all.

  Sullyan remained on the battlements as Pharikian descended to greet his son. He had asked her to accompany him, but she firmly demurred, saying that his first greeting should be private. This was their moment and their triumph, and she would have ample opportunity to meet the Prince later. She watched from the Tower as Pharikian and Idrimar, flanked by Barrin and the Velletian Guard, rode down to the northern gate to welcome the returning Heir.

  Even from her lofty vantage point, she could see that Aeyron was a tall, lean young man, very like his father and sister in build. But whereas Idrimar’s hair was dark, as her father’s must have been when he was younger, Aeyron’s was a bright and shining blond. There was no mistaking him among Tikhal’s entourage. It seemed to Sullyan that he was not as mindful of protocol as Pharikian had led her to believe, for as soon as he saw his father, he leapt down from his tall bay stallion and ran toward him. The Hierarch also dismounted, and the pair embraced fondly, unembarrassed by the show of emotion. Then Aeyron turned to his sister and swept her up in a huge bear-hug which must have left her breathless. Even on the battlements, Sullyan heard their delighted laughter.

  She noticed that Marik had also remained in the Citadel, and guessed he was too unsure of his position or his welcome to intrude upon this family reunion. She smiled. She was sure Aeyron would willingly accept the Count, as the young man was clearly very fond of his sister.

  The first rush of emotion over, Pharikian then greeted Lord Tikhal, who was now his most powerful noble since the demise of Rykan. Sullyan was interested and relived to see that the handshakes these two mighty lords exchanged were informal and friendly. Tikhal was trusted implicitly. If not, Aeyron would never have been sent
into his care.

  Formalities over, the cavalcade moved at a stately pace around the Citadel walls, entering via the south gate so they could ride up the Processional Way in front of the townspeople. The roar of the crowds, the cheering and acclaim they accorded their Prince, reached clearly up to the battlements, telling Sullyan just how deeply the populace loved the Heir. A general holiday had been declared by the palace and the townsfolk were making the most of it. Street parties and feasting were already underway in many parts of the town.

  Once the cavalcade was well on its way, Sullyan suggested that she and her companions should return to their rooms to begin preparing for the celebrations. There was to be a huge banquet in the Great Hall with music, dancing, singing, and all manner of entertainments which would continue all afternoon and evening—probably until there was no one left who could eat, sing, or dance any longer.

  The men retired to Bull and Taran’s chambers while Sullyan and Rienne helped each other in the Major’s suite. Pharikian had seen to it that both women had new gowns for the occasion, and that the men had fine shirts, tunics, and breeches. Sullyan’s gown was of spring-green satin. It clung to her and flowed around her body like a shimmering jade waterfall. She was still thinner than usual and it showed, but she was slowly regaining her health and strength. She left her wealth of tawny hair loose, binding it simply around her brow with a single fillet of gold. Her fire opal flashed at her throat, and she had begged a subtle, flowery perfume from Idrimar that just hinted at summer meadows.

  Rienne’s gown was also satin; a deep, royal blue that accentuated the darkness of her hair and the soft grey of her eyes. She had a silver clasp in her hair to hold it out of her eyes, and Idrimar had lent her a heavy rope of silver for her throat. She looked regal in her new attire, and her only sadness was that Cal was not there to see her.