The Arkhel Conundrum (The Tears of Artamon Book 4)

by Ash, Sarah

  “I had no idea it would be so overwhelming.”

  “What . . . are you . . . doing to me?” Oskar managed to get the words out through gritted teeth.

  “Granting your wish.”

  And then the unbearable build-up of pressure beneath Oskar’s shoulder blades culminated in a rending, crunching sound as flesh and bone were torn apart and something, no, two “things” burst through.

  Oskar’s involuntary scream resonated back to him through the being’s momentary stunned silence. He tried to get up but the new unfamiliar weight on his back forced him back down. Breathing hard, sweat trickling from his body, he tried again, determined not to be beaten, attempting to snatch a look behind at what the being had done to him, fully expecting to see blood and slime pulsing from the open wounds.

  What he glimpsed robbed him of speech. Rocking on hands and knees to try to dispel the agony, he felt them slowly unfurling, flexing in the fresh air, as the being within him took control .

  Wings. But not Sahariel’s scarlet leathery Drakhaoul wings, these were formed of golden feathers, tipped with flame, that dazzled as they dried in the sunlight.

  “You wished to fly again.”

  So the being had read his thoughts. Unless, knocked half-senseless, he had been babbling his delusions aloud to the empty moorland.

  “But why me?” As the waves of shock gradually died down and Oskar was able to think more clearly, suspicions formed in his mind. “And what do you intend to do?” The being had not offered him a choice. He had just taken control of his body.

  “You will help me complete my mission. And expiate some of the sins that Sahariel forced you to commit.”

  Oskar began to comprehend. “You’re one of Them. The Heavenly Guardians.”

  The enemy .

  He sensed a slight ripple of offense at his unspoken reaction. Though he had only been Sahariel’s host for a brief time he still retained many of his memories and bitter resentments.

  “My name is Ardarel. And now that the fledging is complete, we have work to do.”

  Before Oskar could protest, he felt Ardarel slowly ease him to his feet. For a moment he—they—stood still, listening to the sounds of the moorland: the hiss of the wind through the grass, the occasional warning tweet of small birds fluttering in and out of the spiny bushes. And through Ardarel’s heightened senses, Oskar began to hear far-distant sounds and experience little tingles and disturbances in the air.

  “Do you sense that too? That’s what I’ve been sent to destroy. The interference in the aethyr caused by a powerful magus.”

  Oskar only knew of one magus in Tielen: Kaspar Linnaius. And that name evoked memories from his past he would rather forget of a disastrous mission to Azhkendir and his first encounter with Gavril Nagarian. Without Linnaius, Eugene would no longer be able to protect himself and his family.

  “Destroy the Magus? That can only aid my cause.” But even as he spoke the words aloud, he became aware that, without asking, Ardarel had taken control anyway. The wings unfurled, spreading wide to fan the air in a gilded ripple. The physical effort almost made Oskar lose consciousness but then he felt Ardarel flood his body with supernal strength and they were rising into the air, each powerful wing-beat propelling them higher.

  Oskar let out a whoop of delight.

  This was what he had been missing. The freedom. The sensation of being airborne, of leaving all the cares and disappointments of everyday life far below and just . . . soaring upward.

  Chapter 51

  The wouivres slowly spiraled down into the forest. They brushed close to the shaggy branches of larch and spruce. Gerard was still gripping the rim of the craft, his knuckles bleached white, when he spotted smoldering remains in the clearing below, black smoke rising upward from the charred, skeletal vestiges of a flyer, He forgot his own fear.

  “The Aiglon .” Dread at what he might find overwhelmed him: the pilot’s body, broken beyond hope of repair or horribly burned in the ensuing inferno.

  “Your student’s craft?” Linnaius’s question brought him back from his imaginings.

  “I fear so.” And Gerard vaulted over the side of the craft as soon as Izkael brought it to rest on the forest floor. He had to find out what had happened—no matter how horrific the sight.

  The air of the clearing was tainted with the smell of burning, a vile chymical odor that made his eyes sting. All he could see was a tangle of cogs, gears and pipes, still emitting a dark vapor. He felt a painful tightening in his chest that was not caused by the fumes but the realization that he was looking at the remains of the engine of which Toran had been so proud and had spent so long constructing.

  “Toran!” The cry racked his throat. “ Toran! ”

  No reply. The thick canopy of branches seemed to absorb the sound of his voice. As he turned around, he noticed another wisp of smoke, blue-gray, almost translucent, rising from the stunted chimney of a little stone hut hidden amongst the tree trunks.

  Woodsmoke.

  Gerard set off at a run, almost tripping over knotted roots in his haste. He reached the hut and pounded his fists against the warped door.

  The rotting wood gave way and the door creaked inward, revealing a startled pair of eyes staring at him from the smoky interior.

  “Gerard?”

  Toran, bruised and bloodied, sat slumped against another taller, broad-shouldered cadet whose arms were wrapped protectively around him, his dark head drooping against Toran’s shoulder.

  Gerard recognized the black curls of Toran’s onetime bully and rival inventor.

  “Branville?” What was the third year doing here, and why was he holding Toran so close? A flare of indignation burned through Gerard. “Get away from him!”

  On hearing his name, Branville stirred and slowly raised his head as Gerard lunged toward him.

  “No, Gerard!” Toran glared up at him so fiercely that Gerard stopped, surprised at the vehemence in his voice. “Branville saved my life. I owe him.”

  Branville was gazing at Gerard through half-closed lids, as if having trouble focusing. “That’s right,” he said, his words a little slurred but delivered with his habitual arrogance, challenging Gerard. “I saved him.”

  Gerard forced himself to ignore Branville’s riposte and knelt down beside the cadets. “Are you hurt? Can you walk?”

  “I’m fine.” Toran nodded. “But how did you find us?”

  “I’ll explain later.” Gerard knew from bitter experience at the Iron Works that an injured man might protest that he was fine and a short while later collapse, felled by some hidden internal injury. “Let’s get you back to Swanholm.” He stood, holding out his hand to help Toran to his feet.

  ***

  Gerard emerged from the hut to see Linnaius inspecting the smoldering remains of the craft, sniffing at the fuel residue blackening the twisted metal.

  “The cadets are safe,” Gerard said. “But they’re both badly shaken up; they may even have a broken bone or two. Can you take them back to the palace? I’ll stay behind.”

  “Oh, Izkael can easily carry four people,” Linnaius said airily. “The question is: do you want to reveal who you really are to them?”

  There was no point in hiding the truth any longer. “Too late to pretend otherwise.” Gerard turned to see Branville and Toran in the open hut doorway, propping each other up. “Your passengers are the Honorable Elyot Branville and Lord Toran Arkhel. Cadets, this is Kaspar Linnaius, the Emperor’s Magus and my great-grandfather.” As the cadets limped toward them, they halted and Toran’s eyes widened as he gazed at Linnaius.

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Magus,” he said in awed tones. “My grandfather used to tell me about your inventions; he was very impressed by your ingenuity.”

  “So my reputation traveled beyond Tielen?” Linnaius gave a little nod of satisfaction. “I’m flattered.”

  “Is there any way we can mark this spot? It’s the farthest we flew,” Toran said. “If we beat the rival team, then
it’s proof that we won the contest fair and square.”

  “Even if they tampered with the fuel,” Branville added darkly.

  “The wreckage of the Aiglon is more than adequate proof,” Gerard said. “And even if the saboteurs were canny enough to remove it, they’d have difficulty erasing all the evidence.”

  “I’ve taken a sample from your engine,” said Linnaius as they slowly crossed the clearing. “A test or two should reveal any unusual ingredients; after all, I was the one who invented it.”

  Gerard helped Toran and Branville into the craft, silently observing Branville scowl at his outstretched hand—proudly ignored—and the ensuing wince of pain that he couldn’t hide as he clambered in.

  Toran was gazing around him at the craft and the sail hanging limply from the mast, as Linnaius climbed in.

  “But how does this fly?” he asked, wide-eyed.

  “Brace yourselves.” Linnaius took his position at the rudder and said, “Take us back to Swanholm, Izkael!”

  Izkael sprang into the air, tugging the craft behind him; the slack sail filled with the breeze and Gerard heard Toran’s shout of amazement as they rose rapidly between the trees. Branville, white-faced, swore under his breath.

  Gerard settled back, more than a little relieved that they were conveying the injured cadets to safety far faster than the imperial cavalry could have done. After so many shocks and alarms, perhaps he could afford to relax.

  And then he felt it again, that faint disturbance in the aethyr: a distant shiver of golden fire, fine as the vibration of a lute string.

  “Ardarel?” he asked in a low voice.

  Linnaius gave a brief shake of the head. “Like . . . but different.” He seemed perplexed, rather than alarmed.

  “Another Guardian?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Close by?”

  “Not so close that we need to stop what we’re doing. Let’s just get your students back to Swanholm so that their injuries can be treated.”

  Gerard nodded but could not help glancing up into the pale sky, hoping not to see it rent asunder again by the Winged Warrior with the fiery sword.

  ***

  The wouivre-drawn sky-craft sped back toward Swanholm Palace. To Gerard’s relief, he soon spotted the cavalcade of imperial horsemen below, cantering out of the great gilded gates on the furthest northern boundary of the palace park. And, catching up to them, the lone horseman in the gray and gold uniform that Linnaius had identified earlier as the Emperor.

  “Swanholm,” said Gerard to Toran. “You’re safe now.”

  He heard a rasping sigh and Branville slumped back against Toran. His face was pallid, mouth drooping slackly, a little trickle of dried blood at one corner.

  “Elyot, wake up. Elyot!” Toran took the older cadet’s hand in his, squeezing it hard. When Branville did not respond, Toran up looked at Gerard, eyes dark with concern. “He’s been putting on a brave face. Suppose he’s badly hurt?”

  “Take us down, Izkael,” Linnaius ordered.

  And not a moment too soon, Gerard thought.

  ***

  A shadow passed across the pale sunlit sky above the gilded park gates; Eugene reined his horse to a standstill and glanced up.

  Flying toward him above the forest came a sky-craft. His heartbeat quickened as he recognized the white-haired pilot and he raised his hand to wave frantically.

  “Magus!” he shouted with the full force of his lungs. The imperial cavalry lieutenant, hearing his cry, called the troop to halt and the coach driver followed suit. Everyone on the ground stared up into the sky to where the Emperor was pointing. The lodge keeper hurried out just as the Magus brought the sky-craft down to the ground, easing it to rest on the grass beside the white lodge house. But Eugene had already dismounted and was running over to greet his errant mentor even before the craft had come to a complete stop.

  “Where have you been , Kaspar?” His breathless question came out in more of an accusatory tone than he had intended, revealing, he realized, how much he had missed the old man. And then he gazed at the three other occupants of the craft and recognized with relief the distinctive shock of Arkhel hair on the drooping head of the third. “Toran Arkhel and Elyot Branville—thank God you’re both safe.” Alive, he noted, but the two cadets were badly gashed and bruised, with scarcely enough energy left to register who he was or where they were.

  “These cadets are in urgent need of medical attention,” said Linnaius. “Is that Doctor Amandel’s coach I see over there?” He had neatly sidestepped answering Eugene’s question—but Eugene would not have expected any less of him. So he beckoned to Amandel’s driver to bring the coach closer and stood aside while a couple of the imperial cavalry, under the doctor’s instructions, carefully helped the two Tourmaline cadets inside, aided by the fourth occupant of the craft.

  Who the deuce is he? Eugene stared at the unfamiliar passenger, noting with keen interest that he wore thick-lensed spectacles of the kind often adopted by magi to conceal the telltale glitter of their eyes. Was he another magus? Kaspar has some explaining to do.

  ***

  Gerard busied himself with helping Toran and the groggy Branville into the dark, leather-upholstered interior of the doctor’s coach. He was relieved to have something practical to occupy his mind so that he could block out the confusion of feelings surging through him.

  The Emperor recognized Toran. Have they been introduced before? Perhaps before the race . . .

  As he withdrew his arm from around Branville, Toran said, “Will you come back to the palace with us, Gerard? Guy Maulevrier is there.”

  Gerard frowned at the mention of his tutor’s name.

  “He stole your designs.” Toran’s voice was slurred; he seemed to be fading in and out of consciousness again. “There was no mistaking it. And your craft flew really well.”

  “He stole— ” Gerard began. It was confirmation of his worst suspicions about Maulevrier – and yet he felt oddly detached. Everything that had happened in the last hours had so changed his view of his path in life that Guy’s underhand act seemed relatively unimportant. He glanced over his shoulder at his great-grandfather. “I’ll stay with the Magus. Please give my regards to Major Bauldry,” he added, withdrawing from the coach to make way for the doctor. As he stepped back, he could not help noticing Branville slumping sideways, his dark head coming to rest against Toran’s shoulder—and Toran not only failing to push him away but adjusting his own position to support him. No doubt about it; in the months since he left Paladur, there must have been a dramatic shift in the way the two interacted. And a wry sense of resignation settled over him like a fine drizzle dampening a bright morning.

  Perhaps it’s better this way. I’m not the same man I was back in Paladur. Anyone who stays close to me will be in mortal danger. Best I cut myself loose from all ties. But there was still a strange dull ache about his heart that no amount of rationalization could dispel; it would be hard to forget Toran.

  The coachman shook the reins and the horses set off at a brisk trot, drawing the coach along the long allée toward the distant palace.

  Gerard watched them go, listening with half an ear to the conversation between his great-grandfather and the Emperor, wondering if it was impolite to eavesdrop in the imperial presence.

  “We spotted a second column of black smoke out on the moors. I’d venture that’s where you’ll find the other flyer—and, if the poor devil’s still alive, the other pilot. We can lead the rescue party there in the sky-craft, if you—” Linnaius suddenly broke off.

  At the same moment, Gerard sensed a vivid disturbance in the atmosphere. A shimmer of fiery gold resonated with such vibrancy that it sounded like the violent jangling of a steeple of bells in full clamor.

  The imperial cavalry horses began to whinny and rear up wildly; several bolted in panic, their riders clinging on for dear life.

  A flaming blade sliced a jagged rent in the pale blue sky and a winged figure emerged, s
pilling gouts of fire in its wake as it dived directly toward the Magus and the Emperor.

  Ardarel.

  “Look out!” Gerard yelled.

  Izkael reared up, lashing his great silvered tail and unleashing a gust of stinging hail-stones.

  Gerard peered at the Winged Warrior as it descended, sweeping Izkael’s hailstorm aside with one sweep of the fiery blade.

  Ardarel was . . . different. The angel’s body was clothed in ragged, charred mortal clothes. His face, snarling, distorted, bore no trace of the inhumanly beautiful features Gerard had seen earlier, but looked oddly ordinary.

  Has Ardarel broken the taboo and taken possession of a mortal body to enable him to carry out his mission?

  It was only just above the rush of flame-feathered wings, the searing roar of a hot, dry wind that Gerard heard the angel cry out in a voice that was harsh with all-too human tones of hatred, “Eugene! At last, damn you, at last !”

  In the same instant, Kaspar Linnaius flung himself in front of the Emperor, knocking him off balance. The flaming sword caught the Magus full in the chest.

  Kaspar Linnaius toppled without a sound, the Emperor still shielded by his body.

  Chapter 52

  “Great-grandfather!” Gerard picked himself up and stumbled toward the Magus.

  “Protect the Emperor!” The imperial cavalrymen rallied, some reaching into their saddle holsters for primed pistols and firing at Ardarel, others urging their horses forward to form a protective barrier around Eugene and Linnaius.

  Ardarel let out a sudden, harsh cry. Gerard looked upward and saw that a patch of crimson darkening the angel’s right shoulder. He’s bleeding? But how? I thought his body was made of aethyrial matter—and impervious to bullets?

  “Another magus?” Ardarel turned to stare at him and he felt the searing force of his gaze resting on him. “You again ?” And he raised the dazzling blade, aiming it in his direction.