by Ash, Sarah
“Kaspar.” Asamkis fixed Linnaius with his frost-gray eyes. “We mustn’t delay. He’s very weak.”
“Can you carry him as well as me?”
“Nahaliel, Serapiel and Auphiel have gone to retrieve your sky-craft. They’ll be here soon,” Asamkis said, rising from his brother’s side.
“Be careful,” Linnaius said. “The Winged Guardian who attacked us may come back. There may be others lying in wait for you.” The possibility that all his faithful wouivres might crash to earth like Izkael, seared by the Guardians’ flaming swords, was almost too distressing to contemplate. He had promised his beloved mentor as she lay dying that he would protect Izkael and his kin to the end of his days. Am I too old to be able to keep that promise any longer? I need to find an heir . . . and soon. Someone younger and stronger, who’ll watch over them in my stead.
***
A thin sunlight broke through the whey-pale skim of clouds as Linnaius, Chinua and Asamkis settled the unconscious Izkael inside the sky-craft. Behind the yurt, Chinua’s sturdy brown ponies were munching at a bale of hay. The snowy steppes stretched into the frost-hazed distance, white and empty.
“Thank you, Chinua.” Linnaius shook the shaman by the hand. “I owe you my life. What little’s left of it, that is.”
“I can only wish you luck with your search,” Chinua said, bowing his head in farewell. “Perhaps it will bring you unexpected happiness.”
“Happiness? For me?” Linnaius climbed into the sky-craft and settled himself down beside Izkael, one hand on the tiller. “It’s too late for that.” And with his free hand, he twisted his fingers in the air, summoning a breeze that gusted in across the plain, stirring the ponies’ manes and tails, making them glance up, startled.
The sail of the sky-craft filled with the breeze and the wouivres came darting down to lift it into the air.
“Where now, Kaspar?” cried the foremost, turning his head and fixing him with frost-gray eyes.
“Home, Asamkis,” said Linnaius. The word had a strangely comforting ring to it. “Home . . . to Sapaudia.”
Part Two
Chapter 23
Tourmalise Spring
Toran Arkhel gazed down at the cadets assembled far below on the parade ground. From the roof of the crenellated square tower of the academy he could hear the animated buzz of conversation; none of the instructor officers had called their students to order yet as the final preparations were made for the first trial.
“So where’s the Emperor’s representative?” Branville loomed close behind him. “What was his name again?”
“Colonel Nils Lindgren,” Toran turned back to the Aiglon .
“Is he an ingenieur? Or just another military bigwig?” Branville sounded unimpressed. But Toran paid him scant heed. He was so keyed up that his hands were trembling as he prepared the little engine. On Bernay’s advice he had already tested it outside the frame many times. An ingenious fusion of clockwork and steam. Bernay’s description had pleased him and yet he was still not convinced that all his calculations were right. The downscaled wheels and cogs turned, the pistons went up and down—but could they produce enough power to lift the craft and then keep it airborne? The rules of the competition stated that, to win, the flying machine must stay aloft for up to five minutes and travel a distance of at least five hundred yards.
The cadets below suddenly fell silent; Lorris, who was acting as lookout and liaison officer, called excitedly, “The colonels have arrived.”
“Ready, boys?” Major Bauldry, a little out of breath after climbing the steep stair to the tower roof, emerged onto the lead, followed—to Toran’s surprise—by Gerard Bernay.
“What’s he doing here?” Branville glowered at Bernay.
“I invited Ingenieur Bernay to thank him for helping us out.”
“Are you mad? He’s a rival competitor.”
“Not any longer. He—” and Toran hesitated, not wanting to betray the ingenieur’s confidence and make matters worse than they already were. “He decided to withdraw his entry.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Branville gave Toran a contemptuous look. “Do you really expect me to believe that?”
“Shouldn’t you be helping Cadet Arkhel with the Aiglon ?” Bernay said pointedly.
“Off you go, Branville,” Major Bauldry said, “to the finishing post.”
Branville turned on his heel and went down the stair. A minute or so later he appeared on the far side of the parade ground where the other members of the design team were waving flags. They had painted a white circle on the ground.
“Is that your target?” Bernay asked Toran. Toran nodded.
“And is the wind in your favor?”
“We didn’t have much choice.” Toran glanced up at the flagpole behind him on which the Academy’s flag was flying, billowing in a stiff breeze that was blowing across the parade ground from the north. If the wind direction could just change to ENE . . .
He offered up a quiet prayer to his grandfather and set the Aiglon ’s engine in motion. Standing with the craft in both hands, feeling its mechanical heart beating, chugging, like a living creature straining to be free from his grasp, he lifted it high, pointing its nose toward Branville far below.
He let go.
Far below there was an audible gasp as all the cadets strained to watch the Aiglon ’s first flight. Toran felt every beat of its tiny engine as if it were his own heart, thrumming in his chest.
It skimmed like a white bird across the heads of the spectators below.
It flies! It really flies!
And then a gust of wind caught the craft, tilting it in the wrong direction. A groan of disappointment arose from the watchers below. Toran watched, unable to look away, gripping the rough stone of the crenellations, forgetting to breathe.
It’s going to crash.
***
The white flyer soars through the air, high above the upturned faces of the black-gowned students .
Gerard blinked, trying to remind himself that he was not on the bell tower roof at Tielborg University launching his own model craft. And the Aiglon , Toran’s pride and joy, was caught in a sudden northerly gust, in danger of being blown off course and crashing onto the dais where the Emperor’s representative was standing.
He took off his spectacles. For the fraction of a second, he could actually see the wind streaking past, silvery, translucent traces scored on the clear air. Instinctively, he raised his right hand, almost like the conductor of an orchestra shaping a phrase with the curve of his fingers, subtly nudging the breeze in a different direction.
The Aiglon juddered slightly as the breeze lifted it—but then steadied and continued downward toward the painted circle where the waiting cadets were shouting out their excitement and Branville was waiting, his arms raised high to catch it.
Toran let out a cry of exultation, punching the air with his clenched fist.
From down below a roar of approval arose from the ranks of cadets. Gerard hastily put on his spectacles again, just as Toran turned to him, his eyes shining.
“We did it,” he said. “The Aiglon flew. But we couldn’t have done it without your help.”
For a moment, the sight of Toran’s ecstatic expression, radiant with pride and gratitude, almost took Gerard’s breath away. So bright. “No,” he said quietly. “You deserve the acclaim: you, Branville, and your team.”
“Come and meet Colonel Lindgren, Arkhel,” said Major Bauldry, steering Toran toward the stairs. Toran gave Gerard an apologetic grin and disappeared into the stairwell. Gerard stayed where he was, trying to find a logical explanation for what had just happened—and failing.
Those silvery translucent wisps of breeze . . .
He shook his head. It must have been a trick of the sunlight—or another manifestation of the problems with his eyes. There was no way that he could have manipulated the breeze to change the flight path of the little craft.
Far below on the parade ground he could see Colonel Mo
uzillon presenting Toran, Branville and the other cadets of the Aiglon team to the Emperor’s representative who was neatly dressed in the distinctive pale gray uniform of the Tielen army.
It was a while since Gerard had seen that uniform and it brought back bitter-sweet memories of his home city. Not that he had ever felt the slightest desire to enter the Tielen army or the navy, but he still entertained a genuine admiration for the Emperor and his passionate interest in the sciences. Disappointment overwhelmed him. He had not realized until then how much he had hoped to win the chance to return to Tielen.
If only he had not been disqualified from entering the Emperor’s competition, he could have requested to be reinstated at Tielborg University. And though he had tried to suppress his desire to spend his days developing his designs, working with Toran had reignited his passion for invention.
“You’ve earned your success, Toran,” he said softly, turning up his coat collar and heading for the stair. “But now I have to find another path and make a new life for myself.”
***
Rasse Cardin owned a grand town house, built on fashionable Halcyon Hill in Paladur, high above the pall of smoke and steam exuding from the chimneys of his Iron Works. Gerard had been there once before when Master Cardin had invited him to dinner and had been surprised to find that the other guests included an architect, a popular operatic soprano, a portrait painter, and the prelate of Paladur Abbey; he had never imagined till then that his employer kept such distinguished company. As Gerard trudged up the steep hill past other fine houses, their candlelit windows illuminating the rain-slicked pavements, he wondered if he had been summoned to attend another such genteel gathering. He was not in the mood for making polite small talk.
But on arriving, he was shown into Cardin’s study. The works owner looked up from his paper-strewn desk and smiled, laying down his pen. “Gerard; do sit down. Will you take a glass of burnt wine with me?”
“Thank you.” Gerard was glad of the refreshment; it had been a long and testing day and he relished the warming glow of the rich fortified wine after the chill damp of the Paladur evening.
“How do you feel about managing a project of your own?” Cardin asked. “I’ve been asked to supply and install pumps and drainage for a new mining development. I’m getting too old for such ventures, but it’s an ideal opportunity for a young man like you. I’ll supply the equipment and you supervise the installation, then train the miners to use it themselves.”
“It sounds . . . interesting. Is it close to Paladur?”
Cardin’s smile broadened. “A little further afield. It’s in Azhkendir.”
Gerard choked on the burnt wine. “A little further?” he said when he could speak clearly again.
“All the details and travel documents are in this folder,” said Cardin, patting a fat leather wallet on the desk. “And money, of course, to cover your expenses.”
“I don’t speak Azhkendi.”
“Our client is from Tourmalise, so that shouldn’t be a problem. He’s agreed to set you up with a translator.”
“When do I leave?” Gerard took the heavy folder, glancing at the contents.
“The ship we’ve hired will sail for Narvazh in two days’ time. Can you be ready by then?”
Two days. Gerard hesitated. But perhaps a challenging assignment was just what he needed to shake him out of the dark, dull mood he’d lapsed into since his design had been disqualified. “Very well,” he said, nodding his assent.
“Have you been having trouble with your eyes, Gerard?” Cardin asked, bringing the decanter to refill his glass. “I noticed you’ve taken to wearing spectacles lately.”
“Just a little difficulty with close work,” said Gerard, hoping the excuse sounded convincing.
“At your age?” Cardin clapped him on the shoulder, laughing heartily. And then he added, serious again, “As long as you haven’t incurred any injury in the foundry; you must take care of yourself, my boy.”
“I’m sure the fresh mountain air of Azhkendir will do me good.”
“The foundry lads will miss you. But it’s only a temporary assignment; you’ll be back by autumn. Unless you’re tempted to stay on in Azhkendir.”
Even though he had accepted the posting without any thought as to the consequences, Gerard felt oddly relieved as he stepped back out into the evening drizzle, almost as if he was observing himself and approving his decision. Hadn’t he wished for a new opportunity that would allow him to distance himself from Toran and the Emperor’s competition?
But a small, dry voice whispered at the back of his mind, ‘Coward. You’re running away, just as you did before. One day you’re going to have to stop running—and face the consequences.’
***
Toran found the ingenieur in the works office.
“Major Bauldry wished me to convey his thanks to you for helping us.” He held out the letter he had been sent to deliver; Bernay took it and placed it unopened on his desk. “He’s almost certain that we’ll be invited to Tielen as Colonel Lindgren confided in him that ours was the best entry he had seen so far. And this letter is from the major inviting you to continue to mentor us—”
Toran paused a moment to draw breath, realizing that, in his excitement, he had been rattling on without giving Bernay a chance to comment.
But Bernay had turned away and seemed to be unaccountably busy shuffling through some papers on the desk. “I’m afraid there’s been a change of plan,” he said, his back to Toran. “I won’t be able to help you with the final round of the competition after all. Maistre Cardin is sending me abroad on urgent business for the Iron Works.”
“You’re going away?” Toran had been so full of elation; suddenly those few words cast a shadow over his sunny mood. There would be no more of the sessions at the Iron Works which he had come to look forward to so much. No more poring together over pages of intricate drawings and mathematical equations. No more sharing of discoveries and ideas with a mind so like his own: enquiring and ingenious, obsessed with finding the solutions to seemingly insoluble problems in the mechanical arts. “B-but why?” he stammered. “Where?”
“Maistre Cardin needs an ingenieur to install a pumping mechanism at a new mine works.” For some reason Bernay was not looking at him directly. “In Azhkendir.”
“Azhkendir?” For a moment Toran was baffled and then he made the connection. “For my father?”
“It seems I’m the only ingenieur employed at the works with the relevant experience to oversee the installation.” Still Bernay did not meet his eyes.
“But what about the Aiglon ? How will we manage without your guidance? You’re the only one in Paladur who has the expertise to advise us. I thought you’d accompany us to the competition in Tielen. You deserve it.” Toran had tried to disguise his bitter disappointment but it welled up, spilling out.
“Me? No; you’ve done the work yourselves; you deserve to take the credit, you and Branville. All I’ve done is act as facilitator.” Bernay looked at him at last. “Have faith in your abilities, Toran.”
“But we’d never have got this far without you.” Toran couldn’t stop himself; he knew he must sound like a child who desperately hopes to talk an adult round to doing what he wants, all the time knowing that his case is hopeless. “How long will you be gone?”
“Well, the journey by sea to Narvazh takes about a month once the winter sea ice melts. And then I have to get the equipment transported inland to the Caradas Mining Company headquarters.”
“Caradas Mining Company?” Toran echoed, caught off-guard. “Is that what my father’s called it?”
“Didn’t he tell you?” Bernay looked surprised.
“So he’s used my grandfather’s family name.” Toran’s voice had gone hoarse; he cleared his throat, ashamed that he had let his feelings show in front of Bernay. “I wonder if my mother approves? I suppose if he’d called it the Arkhel Mining Company, the Nagarians would have point blank refused him mining rights and thro
wn him out.”
Bernay raised one eyebrow in silent enquiry.
“So you’ve never heard about the clan wars?” Toran didn’t know how best to explain. “The Arkhels and the Nagarians have been at each other’s throats for as long as anyone can remember.”
“Clan wars? Wonderful,” Bernay said with a dry laugh. “This assignment gets better and better.”
Toran became aware that maybe he had an ulterior motive that he had not, until now, fully acknowledged. I wanted to spend more time with Bernay, not less. And now he’s going away and I won’t be able to see him at all . And with that awareness came a sense of imminent loss so powerful that he felt winded, as if someone had punched him in the gut. “Don’t go,” he heard himself say. “Ask Maistre Cardin to send someone else.”
“There is no one else,” Bernay said quietly.
“When do you leave?” Toran managed to ask.
“Tomorrow. Mahieu and I have to be up before dawn to supervise the loading of the machinery onto canal barges.”
The office door opened and Mahieu appeared, grinning.
“Did I hear my name?” he said cheerily. “Master Cardin wants a moment of your time, Ingenieur, over in the fettling shop.”
Toran realized that he would only be in Bernay’s way if he lingered; he’d carried out his mission in delivering the major’s letter. As the ingenieur bent to pick up his ledger and stuck a pencil behind his ear, Toran slipped out of the open door, head down so that Mahieu could not see his troubled expression and ask him what the matter was.
***
Why, on this of all mornings, had Colonel Mouzillon called a full drill? Toran fretted as the colonel slowly walked along the rows of cadets, taking his time to reprimand those whose boots were not polished to perfection. The rattle of the drummers beating out a martial marching rhythm and the squeaky fifes only increased his frustration.
The instant the cadets were dismissed, Toran broke ranks, speeding off toward the academy gates.
