by T. A. Miles
Irslan opened himself up to the idea with a smile. “Regarding what?”
“Governor Tahrsel,” she answered and studied his expression while she spoke. It changed only marginally, but she could detect some slight weariness and perhaps disdain. She asked, “How well do you know him?”
“Not as well as either my father or my uncle did,” he replied easily. “There’s an irony to that, regarding my uncle and you may suspect what it is, though by the vaguely puzzled look on your face I’m going to guess that Ilayna didn’t bring the subject up.”
“Which subject?” Cayri asked, to expedite the process. Irslan had proven himself to be a very roundabout man at times.
With a nod that seemed to understand her unspoken assessment, Irslan said, “My uncle and the governor were friends once, both of them working to better Indhovan’s relations … not with the rest of Edrinor, but with the Islands.”
“The Islands?”
“Governor Tahrsel’s homeland, and Konlan’s as well.” Irslan paused as if to reconsider his words. “I say better relations as if there was a problem. There was not, except in bringing our cultures closer together so that we may work together to improve and advance.”
Cayri took in this information, applying it to what she knew of Lady Tahrsel, which included her very open admission that Deitir was not their son, but hers alone. Of course, there would be no point to pretending with the potential of the governor’s very notable appearance, which Deitir would have inherited none of. This was presuming that Konlan’s very exotic features were unique to the Islands, of course, and that Tahrsel was fully native to them. Her mind went to Deitir’s loyalty to his adoptive father and deduced that there was no tension nor angst with being adopted, or with being apart from whomever his natural father was. Perhaps the man had died. Given Lady Tahrsel’s apparent age, she must have had Deitir later than many women anticipated bearing children. If the father was her age or older, possibly having served the war in some way or another, it was quite possible that he passed away prematurely. Her mind went next to Irslan’s father and uncle, but she would not let herself leap to any unfounded conclusions. Irslan did not act as if he harbored that flavor of disdain toward the governor. Cayri set aside notions of scandal and inwardly rolled her eyes at how quickly Vlas might have concluded that one was evident while simultaneously declaring his lack of care for it.
“What caused your uncle and the governor to fall away from each other?” she asked delicately.
Irslan’s readiness to be on the topic dismissed concern for how it was discussed. “While my uncle’s ideas became more active, the governor’s remained conservative and, in my opinion, tired. Tahrsel is not young anymore and he has a son to inherit his duties. Perhaps he’s done with it all by now.”
“Your uncle was imprisoned years ago,” Cayri reminded while she considered Ilayna’s comment about her husband possibly having given up. She had to remind herself that twenty years were many to most people in Edrinor.
Irslan held his silence stubbornly, as if he would ignore that fact and declare the governor retired from his responsibility prematurely. But then he said, “I suppose the cutting truth of it is that I don’t know what happened.” He looked at Cayri directly. “When my father died—presumably he was one of the many bodies that went unrecovered on the battlefield—the world collapsed at the pace of a landslide. My uncle became very impatient and very insistent that the war had to end. At that same time, for whatever his reasons may have been, Tahrsel became increasingly disinterested in the war altogether. He went so far as to declare it a religious dispute between Edrinor’s Old Kingdom faction and an isolated party of extremists out of Morenne. Twenty years ago, he was very certain that the two groups would have destroyed one another or lost all vigor by now. Your presence here would let him know very certainly that he’s wrong and I suspect he wants nothing to do with that discovery.”
“But the murders and disappearances….”
“He’s assigned them to the constabulary. Once the culprits have been apprehended, he’ll undoubtedly announce the end of the curfew—which you’ll note is not strictly enforced—and the city will return to its affairs as usual.”
“People are wary, though,” Cayri said. “Whether or not they feel compelled by the curfew itself, they heed a danger they must feel is present.”
Irslan nodded.
“They’re afraid,” Cayri stated bluntly. In Irslan’s silence, she added, “But the governor’s not insisting that they should be.”
Again, Irslan had no response past a general look of agreement.
Sternly, she asked, “Who is?”
With their Lantern spells recast, the area behind the gate was explored. Korsten was relieved that they discovered more of it than what first appeared visible in the shadows. The tunnel, as it turned out, stretched well away from the gate and the sounds of the many Vadryn who would have liked to follow them through it. Their complaints resounded throughout the narrow space, but eventually began to fall away. Korsten suspected it was owed to defeat rather than distance. And, in his current mode of thinking, that could only mean that they were devising a new scheme.
“There are so many of them,” he voiced helplessly.
And Merran simply said, “There are.”
“Why?” Korsten pressed. There were times when Merran’s silence was enough. And there were times when it was not.
“Why seems obvious,” his friend replied. “How is my question.”
“They don’t often tolerate one another,” Korsten considered aloud. “Yet, they appear to be very much working in agreeable tandem.”
“And unfortunately, they’re very drawn to you.”
Korsten cast Merran a quick look. “You cannot mean to tell me that the reason we were pursued so determinedly and nearly torn to shreds has anything to do with me specifically.” He caught a sharp breath and spat it out in the same moment. “Except you do mean to tell me that, because of my damnable talent for Allurance. But I’m not trying to express it.”
“I don’t think it matters. Once talents Resonate and especially once they’re Ambient, they become as much instinct as ability. It pushes out of you as unconsciously as a breath.”
Now he was considering how he could better control how the Essence within him was breathing. It seemed a little absurd in the moment. “What can we do, then?”
“There is nothing for it,” Merran said with a slight lift of his shoulders and a shake of his head.
“Merran,” Korsten said directly. He stopped walking and caught his friend by the arm. When Merran turned to face him, he looked him in the eye, unconsciously noting the pleasing aspects of him that he always noted, because he was very drawn to Merran and—in spite of himself—he had been from the beginning. He asked again, “What can we do?”
“You have to work ahead of them,” Merran said. While Korsten performed a visual search of Merran’s features to see if a better answer lay there, his friend continued. “You detect them as much as they detect you. They will only ever sense you when you come into their sphere of awareness. It is my hope that you’ll begin to anticipate them.”
“Anticipate them,” Korsten repeated and they looked at each other for an extended moment. He understood what Merran meant by that. And it made sense. Their instincts were primal and reactionary. He, as a person over an instinctive beast, had the ability to define sensations as they were forming. He had perception and emotion to help him translate ahead of things leaping out at them, more so being a mage. These were aspects of working as a mage that he’d had little time to hone. Thirty years at the Seminary had afforded him ample time to understand his new calling in philosophy and practical application, but in instinct and technique, he was still growing. He wondered in a moment like this if Merran regretted their assignment and if he would have preferred to be working alone again. Maybe that was what was being implied with the comment about A
shwin before he’d Reached back to the Seminary. Maybe it was intended as an enticement, an excuse for Korsten to leave the field and return to safety.
As such thoughts were forming he wondered why it was that he found it so easy to feel insecure, still. Maybe it wasn’t that Renmyr had always been affecting such a dismal attitude onto him. Perhaps it was him after all.
Merran lifted his hand to Korsten’s face and in that moment Korsten drew himself up mentally. He took in a leveling breath and turned his face toward the tunnel entrance and away from Merran’s fingertips. He forced himself to smile somewhat, hoping to alleviate Merran’s automatic concern and want to help.
“I wonder sometimes if I’ll ever overcome the mess I let myself become.” He said it in a tone that was meant to state he was determined to try.
Merran raised his other hand, directing Korsten’s face gently back until it was in both of his hands. Korsten didn’t bother to escape when Merran kissed him. He lifted his own hand to cover Merran’s and kissed him back without regard for their situation. Unexpectedly, the pleasant pushing back of his emotions … the sedating effect of Merran’s healing touch was absent, and Korsten felt an intense stirring inside of him instead. For the first time he felt a very conscious, very passionate want not for the man’s healing ability, but for the man himself. Whether or not it felt at all different to Merran, he made no attempt to part and for several long moments Korsten felt as if he couldn’t be torn from him even by the force of all of the Vadryn within the passages around them.
And it was ironically then, as he considered the demons he had just defied in thought, that he drew himself away from his friend. His dear friend, who was mildly stunned—perhaps by his own actions—and somewhat breathless. Merran furrowed his brow very lightly, as if anticipating that Korsten might say something.
Korsten decided not to leave him waiting. Though his hand remained on Merran’s, which had slipped to his neck, and their faces were still quite close, he resisted that closeness and said, “They’re moving….” He paused to recover the breath he had also misplaced during their exchange, then added—not as urgently as he might have at any other time, “All around us.”
And now Merran’s slight look of puzzlement became a full frown. He almost looked to the walls surrounding them, but Korsten’s gaze held those blue eyes in place.
“There are passages,” he explained.
Merran hesitated another moment, but then nodded. He understood. “Let’s keep moving.”
“There is a storm approaching,” Ersana said, in a voice that projected with amazing ease considering her manner.
Vlas stood in the back of the chamber with Imris nearby, disliking the tone of the speech at hand. It was delivered to a greater number than he anticipated arriving during the hours that were marked dangerous. He’d watched them filtering gradually in as the evening went and had decided to witness the stance of these particular rogues for himself. He wondered in so doing how many of these people were members of the coven and how many the coven hoped to absorb.
“Those of us who have not defied the gods should not fear the retribution at hand,” the woman continued. She said it as if to ease her audience, rather than intimidate. “The gods will protect the innocent.”
“The gods will equip the innocent with the means to protect themselves,” Vlas said. He thought that he said it to himself, but there were some nearby who looked at him.
Whether it was interest or offense being taken, he almost felt inspired enough to attempt wresting Ersana’s audience from her and letting these people know that the war approaching was far more tangible than metaphor and religion. No disrespect intended to the gods, but it seemed well in evidence that they meant for people to play an active hand in all of this.
It was during that thought that a hand lightly touched his elbow. With Imris to the other side of him, he knew it wasn’t her and he looked toward the stranger with curiosity that became mild impatience when his gaze came to rest on none other than Dacia Cambir. What is it that you want, you absurdly negligent girl? He almost blurted the thought. He imagined the tone of the unspoken words made it into his expression and into the words that he did put together for her nonetheless. “What is it you’ve been trying to say, Miss Cambir, and are you certain you want to say it in the presence of your ever watching mother?”
“I have a message for you, mage,” the girl said, in a tone that was very direct and that instantly raised Vlas’ suspicions, but of what exactly, he couldn’t say. “There’s far more at work here than lies at the surface. Look further than what you can see.”
“I don’t have time for riddles,” Vlas told her, though it was simply something to say while he studied the words and the person delivering them in spite of himself. Dacia seemed the same simple, overly curious girl he had met at Irslan’s, but there was something….
“I meant what I said literally,” Dacia told him firmly.
Vlas instinctively looked past the girl in that moment. A mild start reverberated through his system when a hooded man in the far corner of the chamber raised one hand slightly, just waving with gloved fingers.
“Outside,” Dacia said. “Leave the girl here.”
Somehow Vlas knew Dacia … or the man in the corner … wasn’t referring to Constable Imris. He issued a single nod in reply, then turned toward Imris, who had evidently paid due attention to the exchange; she fell readily into step with him as he made for the door.
As they were passing beneath the entryway into the night air, Vlas looked behind him to see if Dacia had followed in spite of what had been said. He saw her still standing where he’d left her, only now her eyes were on the area below where her mother continued to calmly preach at whoever was there to listen.
With an inward sigh of vexation, Vlas stepped out onto the street. This time it was Imris’ hand that touched his arm. Her grip was strong, but not forceful, not unlike her unique facial features.
“What is it?” he asked her, noting now that his attention had been brought to the matter that she was, in fact, a young woman, though not to be mistaken for a girl.
“What we saw there,” she began, frowning at the brow and mouth while her eyes shone with concern.
“What?” Vlas pressed, not impatiently but with some slight urgency that couldn’t be helped. He didn’t want to lose whatever connection they had made just yet and was eager to meet the man who initiated it.
Imris shook her head and looked up at Vlas, who also took this moment to realize that he was a full head and shoulders taller than her. Her strength in form and posture had made her appear taller at first. “I haven’t seen anything like that since I was a child,” she said.
“It’s magic,” Vlas assured her, because he knew even though it was not a form he was familiar with. Considering it in the brief moments he’d been allowed thus far, he didn’t believe he cared for it. There was an air of ‘possession’ about it.
“Yes, it’s magic,” Imris answered, nodding slowly, her gray-green eyes narrowing as she articulated her next words through her heavy accent. “The magic of the Islands.”
While Vlas immediately wanted to compare what she meant to what he knew, he forced her to hold the thought in the moment he was forcing himself not to reply verbally and turned to look for the hooded man. They could discuss this between them in better detail later.
“There,” Imris said and Vlas looked to see her nod toward a nearby stair where a man with a hooded cloak stood conspicuously against the wall. He would have appeared conspicuous had there been more people traversing the stair. With no one about, it was almost eerie.
The both of them headed over immediately and the man waited for them to come up to the level he stood at.
“I suspect I know who you are,” Vlas said before anything meant to be misleading could be offered to them. He not only had no time for riddles, he had no care for them either.
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“Good,” the man said, leaving his face in the shadow of the cowl that framed it. “None of us have the luxury of time.”
“Yet you wasted twenty years of it imprisoned,” Vlas accused.
“I worked from what I considered a safe fortification,” the man answered, confirming that he was, in fact, Vaelyx Treir.
“What do you mean?” Imris demanded before Vlas could and since she had, Vlas had a different question to accompany hers.
“How?” His answer occurred to him immediately afterward. “Dacia Cambir?”
“No one looks twice at a simple young girl,” Vaelyx said.
“No one except the Vadryn,” Vlas reminded.
At the same time, Imris said, “You endangered her life, and your own.”
“I know,” Vaelyx growled, more at Imris than at Vlas. He pulled back his hood to reveal the glare in eyes that had no small amount of aging gathered around them. Short gray hair sat slightly disheveled around a face that did resemble Irslan’s in its way. But more noticeable than that was the way that Dacia Cambir’s face very strongly resembled his.
“She’s your daughter,” Vlas noted aloud.
Vaelyx transferred his glare from Imris and his jaw tensed while the constable spoke.
“It requires a blood connection,” she said in a tone that confirmed Vlas’ statement.
“What does?” Vlas asked, keeping his gaze sternly on Vaelyx. “It appears a form of possession.”
“Not possession,” the man corrected. “The projection of oneself through a body.”
“Soul riding,” Imris further explained. “I heard stories as a girl. One was of a jealous mother who cast herself onto the soul of her daughter so that she could sabotage her union night. The mother was cruel to the young groom, who then rejected his intended bride. The girl had no memory of it and fell into despair over her loss.”
“There are hundreds of stories on the topic,” Vaelyx inserted. “None of them are relevant with the exception of the fact that the act itself is possible. And yes, I’ve done it to my daughter. Often enough that I fear I may have hindered her, but there was no other choice.”
