The Blood Wars Trilogy Omnibus: Volumes 1 - 3

by T. A. Miles

  It was when he envisioned them grasping for the side of the ship’s hull and gaining purchase with narrow, clawing fingers, that Korsten decided to break his concentration. In that moment, he noticed a form standing beside him. While his waking state of nightmare had him expecting to see the red-doused form of Serawe, he had managed to look calmly over, and felt relief in the action as well as the realization that the presence belonged to Sethaniel.

  Irony poked at the back of his mind—a more personal demon he was lately keeping—but he did not succumb to its taunts. He offered what probably felt more than looked like a smile to his father, and the aged Master Brierly held fast to his dignity, casting a stern eye on the more distant waves. Korsten determined not to harass him, though there were many questions that crossed his mind. Most of them had to do with himself, which may have appeared vain or dramatic, though such an interview would have been primarily to confirm the revelations his memory had served him since returning home and perhaps to apologize. Of the two, apology seemed less appetizing than confirmation, and he knew that was his own pride coming to the surface. He’d spent decades fashioning a monster while in the presence of a beast. The monster he was making was of himself, yes, but the emotional response was real, regardless. Truth manifesting as it had been, he yet dreaded a satisfied response from Sethaniel were his father to receive an admission of wrong from him. Worse than satisfaction, Korsten feared rejection. Though he had for years convinced himself that he had been rejected by his distant parent, he was not so distant from that parent now and to have him walk away….

  “I wonder if the storm will catch up to us?” Korsten decided to ask, though in actuality he knew the answer. The weather had yet to satisfy its course to Cenily, its helpless destination before following the current up the coast. They were hours ahead of it.

  Sethaniel reminded himself of the cloud line by looking toward it, his gaze skimming the horizon to the very evident seam that lay between a bright day and a dark one. His father did not dignify Korsten’s idle talk, stating plainly, “I was of the impression that mages could predict the weather.”

  “Only—” Korsten began, then stopped when Sethaniel looked at him directly. Only those whose talents fall within certain areas of the Spectrum, he was going to say, but he decided to avoid such explanation. “Only some,” he said, and wondered if he had indeed just discounted his father’s curiosity so readily. The man was a scholar and the source from which he—Korsten had no doubt—had drawn the majority of his own inquisitive nature.

  “Only some,” Sethaniel echoed, his tone and expression remaining taut. “And you’re one.”

  Korsten lifted both eyebrows in surprise that might have lent him to protest, but instead it ushered forth amusement. He looked to the ocean, rather than show his smile over the fact that he had been told what his talent was in as blunt a manner as if he had been told to stop running up and down the deck when a child on the same journey north.

  “Were you trying to make idle conversation?” Sethaniel asked next.

  “I was,” Korsten admitted, eyeing the frown on his father’s face in the corner of his vision.

  Sethaniel nodded, then lowered his gaze momentarily to the railing, and said, “I was going to ask that same question myself.” His features squinted briefly in what appeared a rigid display of embarrassment, one which was passed expertly to renewed stoicism when Sethaniel returned his dark eyes to the view of sky and water.

  Korsten continued to observe the image of vulnerability standing in his periphery.

  “Regarding the storm,” Sethaniel clarified needlessly, perhaps feeling the indirect stare of the child he’d never known as an adult, whom he may have felt he’d never really known at all.

  And now Korsten felt a surge of sympathy. It was pairing uncomfortably with the sensations of awkwardness he could feel radiating from his father. Korsten straightened from his lean against the railing and said, “I’ve been remiss.”

  “As have I,” Sethaniel followed.

  “Father,” Korsten continued, pausing on the chance some rebuke may have come, but one did not. He started again. “Father … the fact is that the gods have dealt us a peculiar and unhappy lot. I’ve made a considerable mess with most of it and I have many regrets, but at the same time….”

  His voice trailed to momentary silence, long enough for him to think of those regrets, but also to think of what he appreciated from all of his misfortune. Much of it had to do with individuals—such as Lerissa, Ashwin, and Merran—and the idea of having never met them was unbearable. Second to the love he felt for his fellow mages, he considered himself prior to magehood, yet in ignorance about the Vadryn. Yes, the beauty of ignorance was the ignorance itself, but he knew too much now to be able to entertain the notion of himself happily unaware. He would never wish for that, in spite of any and all pain. He would never wish it upon another person, and that was the rectifying factor; his commitment to informing and protecting others from the type of ignorance that very nearly destroyed him.

  Looking at Sethaniel directly, he completed his words. “At the same time, I’m glad for what’s happened, and for where I am now. It’s my hope that that’s not offensive to you, because even though we’ve been distant and presumed each other dead, I thought of you frequently. My greatest regret has always been that my actions or my … way of being had turned you from me. It turned me to bitterness.”

  Sethaniel nodded once again, his jaw tense. It was noticing the shine in his father’s eyes which reminded him that he had not brought himself to tears. He had no desire to cry over this, in spite of himself. He felt pity for his father that he felt upset by their distance, by his own actions or the lack of them during the years they’d been distant, or perhaps by the simple fact that he could scarcely remember any of it.

  “We needn’t discuss such things,” Korsten said, and hoped that the words were taken more as a mercy than avoidance. In all honesty, he would rather forget all the complicated time behind them and contend only with their current moments. Sethaniel had led a long life, not all of it blessed, and it was Korsten’s desire now as his child to alleviate burden and to allow him peace.

  “The subject is not what taxes me,” Sethaniel replied. “Truthfully, my memory of you has scarcely gone beyond your youngest years.”

  “The years with mother,” Korsten guessed, accurately by the way Sethaniel paid him a glance.

  The elder drew in a breath and released it slowly. His brow lifted and he took his time raising his hands onto the deck railing. “Perhaps I centered too much of my life around her.”

  On that topic, Korsten was not fit to judge. He held onto his silence.

  “But losing her is past,” Sethaniel continued. “Long past, Korsten. You’re her legacy, and her heritage is yours.”

  “Heritage?” Korsten pondered aloud. He understood that his mother was from the north and that his pale skin and the deep hue of his hair were inherited from her. Everyone in Cenily who took notice understood that. But there was something more weighted in the manner in which Sethaniel reminded him of it now.

  Sethaniel looked at Korsten, then briefly let his gaze travel behind them. Instinctively, Korsten’s gaze followed. Were they concerned with incidental company? He was confused by his father’s tone just in that moment.

  “Your mother was Morennish,” Sethaniel said, not quite at a normal speaking level.

  Korsten had never considered it quite like that before—that his mother held a nationality different than Edrinorian—but he did understand that she was from a far upper region. That region had existed well beyond the borderlands they currently knew, and were too distant to have ever been part of Edrinor in any recent era. In a technical sense, that would make her more of Morenne than of anywhere else on their map. He did, however, like to consider that the furthest forests were unnamed country, or some distant wilderness untouched by borders. He supposed
now that that didn’t really make much sense, but in any case….

  Sethaniel’s next words interrupted his thoughts, and were more hushed. “She was Morennish aristocracy,” his father said, punctuating with a brief pause and a sharp breath. He glanced toward the open deck behind them again, then looked Korsten directly in the eyes in such a way that the years that had aged him were momentarily brushed back, exposing the vitality of the scholar and influencer he once had been. “Her family comprised one of the last of the ancient houses of the region. Those elder bloodlines were at odds with the people of Morenne, but still had enough sway back then to give some of us hope that the fire of war might be extinguished from within. There were still open political channels between our countries. Marrying your mother was as much an act of diplomacy as it was of love.”

  Korsten waited until he felt that Sethaniel was either finished or to a point of pause that would allow for response beyond puzzled staring. “That would have been over sixty years ago,” he considered verbally. “The siege on Vassenleigh would have still been recalled by the fathers of the men your age at the time.”

  Sethaniel nodded, resuming a more natural volume. “Your grandfather had been a Kingdom soldier in his day.”

  Korsten recalled. “Yes.” He remembered that he was named for the honorary title his grandfather had received; a title derived of a northern word for a champion. If he’d ever thought of it deliberately, it would have been a horrendous burden to add to those he had already spent his youth collecting. Even now, he would consider it with an air of irony. His intellectual pursuits were certainly not the material of a military hero.

  “It was your grandfather who established a relationship with your mother’s house,” Sethaniel explained. “It was something that Fand and I rekindled as adults, in league with others in our generation who hoped to find a diplomatic end to the war. A group of us crossed over the borderlands, which was at the time forbidden. Morenne considered any Edrinorian foot on their soil further attack—further justification for them to attack us—and Edrinor considered such a venture an act of abandonment, political conflagration, and ultimately treason.”

  “When you say that of the Morennish point of view, you’re referring to the common government,” Korsten said for clarification.

  “Yes,” Sethaniel answered. “Morenne was involved in a political civil war, an insurrection against the ruling families. We knew that if we could get to one of those houses, there would be at least some chance to speak our side of it, in hopes that our willingness to come to peaceful terms could be used as leverage for the houses to regain order.”

  “But there was no chance for that,” Korsten said knowingly, drawing his father’s gaze. “There was never any hope for that, because the Vadryn had already infected their population.”

  Sethaniel remained silent for an extended moment, then turned his gaze to the sea. “Whether or not that’s true….”

  “It is,” Korsten enforced.

  And Sethaniel’s words followed directly on the heels of his own. “Whether or not it is, we certainly were not aware of it at that time. Our own ruling family had been murdered. We’d been without a true center of power for decades. We….”

  Korsten felt his expression taking on the weight of a frown that only grew heavier as realization settled on him. He didn’t let Sethaniel finish. “You hoped to join the countries … to promise the old houses continuation of their bloodline and recognition of a married sovereignty in Edrinor. Without the Rottherlens, you planned to begin a new legacy and—”

  “And do away with the borders,” Sethaniel said with a defensive note. “Yes, we did. Influential families among the cities of Edrinor had united for this cause. Our family was only brought in because of your grandfather. Our station was to be elevated with our agreement—your uncle’s and my agreement—to attempt a diplomatic union. At the time, the governor of Cenily had no children old enough to ensure sincerity to the Morenne family leaders.”

  “But the Brierlys are not considered true nobles in Cenily,” Korsten reminded.

  “No,” Sethaniel said. “We were granted land to live on because of your grandfather’s service militarily. Modest wealth was acquired because of the earnest efforts that were made, but since the political endeavor ultimately failed, our status did not change.”

  “How many of your peers were successful?”

  “In marrying from a northern house?” Sethaniel gave a small shake of his head. “There was an uprising. Some of us were taken prisoner, some of us killed. Fand and I were fortunate enough to find our way back across the borderlands. We had the youngest daughter of an all but slaughtered family with us. Officially, she was a refugee. We were caught in our own country, where we appealed to the mercy of Edrinor’s steward. The mercy we pleaded for was granted….”

  “By a mage,” Korsten finished, nearly whispering.

  Sethaniel nodded.

  And Korsten stood at a temporary loss, the notions and presumable facts passed to him by his father swirling around him like a storm wind. The pending unrest to the atmosphere of … well, of everything was both alarming and exhilarating. He stood at the precipice of discovery … of rediscovery of what he thought he knew. Yet another layer of fresh light had been cast into the gloom of his mind and heart, a home he had dwelled in for far too long without truly knowing. Rectification was at hand.

  The words his mother had spoken to him in dream returned. Come home….

  Korsten’s gaze drifted from Sethaniel, out across the water and gradually north. Indhovan lay distantly ahead, but he envisioned less of it as his mind wandered inland, toward Haddowyn and Lilende, and the uppermost regions beyond both towns.

  Come home….

  He understood what his mother wanted.

  “A traitor working with Konlan,” Cayri pondered aloud.

  Vlas nodded, then habitually gave a glance around the sitting room of the Lady Ilayna Tahrsel to be certain no one else had made themselves present. He preferred that his and Cayri’s conversations remain private, by now if not before. The circumstances were growing more sensitive by the hour, and now with the possibility—the likeliness that Konlan had an accomplice—it was even more essential that they take care in not only their words, but where and to whom they were issued.

  “Of course, there must have been someone,” Cayri said. She had taken a seat on an overstuffed round bench, perched there with a delicate yet ready manner that marked her as a person of experience and alertness.

  Electing to stand—a trait which may have comparatively identified Vlas as a person of little patience—another nod was given. “Of course,” he said in agreement.

  “At first, I had considered that such a someone might have been Irslan,” Cayri admitted.

  Vlas almost nodded a third time, but then withheld the gesture in order to fully digest it. It made perfect sense, obviously, but for some reason Irslan, in his utter example of a man of benign nature, eluded Vlas’ suspicions. He said, “I would have sooner anticipated Deitir Tahrsel. Perhaps even his mother.”

  Cayri arced an eyebrow in interest over his selections, but avoided delving deeper into the topic. “Regardless of early assessments, it’s clear that Konlan’s associate is someone subtler.”

  “Deeper embedded, perhaps,” Vlas returned, beginning to pace a short path between Cayri’s bench and a window.

  “Deeper embedded in what way?” Cayri invited.

  When Vlas came to the window, he scanned lightly for evidence of the enemy invasion. Satisfied with a view of Indhovan’s troops preparing without challenge or assault thus far, he looked behind him at his colleague. “Irslan and any of the Tahrsel family would be a more personal connection; something that, with the proper information, can be readily if not easily assessed. I’m thinking of a connection that would be purely political … someone who perhaps may not have been ally or friend to Konlan at al
l, but who might have worked with him under necessity or perhaps because it was convenient.”

  “I see,” Cayri said, her expression one of consideration. “Doubtless there are several acquaintances with a less present relationship to Konlan, who could have and may still be working against this office.”

  “And ultimately against all of us. But who it could be?” Vlas continued, turning back around to fully face his fellow mage, “I have no idea. It isn’t easy to determine who might be in league with Morenne. Really, it could be anyone, considering the nature of the situation. If an individual isn’t swayed by temptation over promises of power, he might easily be swayed by fear of a torturous death. The involvement of this individual might even have been incidental, such as….”

  “Such as Vaelyx Treir’s,” Cayri finished, looking at him directly.

  Vlas folded his arms in front of him and didn’t deny what had so quickly come to mind.

  Cayri studied him for a considerable moment, one during which Vlas almost began to feel the inklings of contempt for Cayri’s talents. The fact of the matter was that his sentiments toward Vaelyx—a hapless man who’d foolishly allowed control of his own life to be wrested from him by demons—had caught him quite by surprise. Vlas wasn’t aloof to such things as friendship or care for others, but he’d known Vaelyx for a fraction of his overlong life and during that brief span he didn’t feel as if he’d had any sympathy for the man, yet when he died….

  Events had played out swiftly. It was so abrupt, the manner in which he had begun to feel some sense of friendship toward such an awkward and difficult individual, and the moment during which that individual had been killed, violently. There was more to it than that, of course. Vaelyx didn’t seem to care whether or not he survived. The man had been bent on rectifying wrongs he’d committed or allowed and apart from that he seemed weary of life. He had given up. It was as simple as that.