Aethersmith (Book 2)

by J. S. Morin

  In his footsteps followed a rather less-sober Tippu and Kahli, who leaned on one another for support. He could not follow their slurred, hushed conversation in a language he only somewhat knew, but he could tell they were not happy with him. He ignored them as best he could as he entered the house.

  “You cannot leave,” Kahli said deliberately, in the manner of a drunk who realized she is drunk and wished to make herself understood to someone less so.

  “I told you too many times,” Kyrus began, and Tippu put a hand over his mouth.

  “She is not finished saying,” Tippu stated, nodding to her cousin to continue.

  “Ya. No, you cannot leave. I am carrying your baby,” Kahli finished, nodding for emphasis and awaiting Kyrus reaction.

  Kyrus looked hard at the younger girl. She was perhaps two years his junior, yet seemed such a child at times. She was desperate to keep Kyrus, no matter the cost. He could see the tears welling behind an indignant mask, accusing Kyrus of paternity to leash him to her side. She was hoping, no doubt, to put truth to it before he saw through her ruse, but it was the seeing that was her problem.

  “Kahli. You cannot lie to me. My eyes,” Kyrus pointed to them, “are spirit man’s eyes. I see life. If you had a baby, even a tiny one, growing in you, I would see it.”

  “No, it is very new and you will—” Kahli began, but Kyrus cut her off with a gesture. It was not a conversation he ever expected or hoped to have. He wished it were Brannis in his place.

  How would Brannis handle this? He would never have let it carry on this far. He managed to refuse Juliana in his bed and send her back to her own and he loves her more than anyone. I let two girls who were little more than strangers to me share my bed and constantly scheme to seduce me. Brannis would either have sent them away immediately or shared an evening or two with them and let some other lucky girls have their chance, I would wager. He would be envied by the hunters and the other Denku men and gossiped over by half the women, but he would never have let himself become the pet of two little wisps of girls who act like spoiled children.

  Kyrus had paused long enough that Kahli was about to begin speaking again. “Go,” he finally spoke and pointed out the door of his house. His tone left no ambiguity about his meaning. Tippu, crouched down next to Kyrus, tried to curl up to him to avoid being lumped together with Kahli, but it was for naught. “You, too. Go.”

  As the two sullen girls departed his house with tears in their eyes, Kyrus knew he had finally done the right thing with them. He cast a shielding spell over the open doorway, and threw his sleeping mat up onto the bed where it belonged.

  Kyrus knew that the old familiar method of Acardian sleeping would avail him little; it was to be an awkward night’s sleep. Being in the right would not assuage his conscience from the hurt he had given Tippu and Kahli; it was his own fault for allowing them to become so attached. He also knew that it was the first day of springtime in Kadrin and Brannis was set to have a lousy day as well.

  Chapter 8 - Pursuits

  The reflection stared back at Soria from a handspan away, upper lip curled back, examining her teeth. They stood straight as pickets, evenly spaced, ideally proportioned to her face. As she watched, they gradually turned just the slightest shade whiter, undoing the damage of a few weeks’ neglect. With a finger, she pulled at the corners of her mouth to see the more reclusive teeth in back and below, touching them up just a tinge as she went.

  That artist girl has peasant teeth. Mine would never have looked like that even if I had no magic to fix them.

  Soria had taken up the rather Kadrin habit of “guiding” her appearance through the subtle use of magic ever since Juliana had learned the tricks of it at the Academy as a young girl. Unlike Juliana, Soria had no mother to shepherd her as she practiced, nor to keep her pretty as a babe before she was old enough to manage it on her own.

  Soria’s mother had been a priestess of Tansha the Merciful One, traveling the world with Soria’s father to spread the joys of the goddess’s blessings. Their untimely deaths in Khesh had landed Soria in the care of the Tezuan Sun, an ascetic order that raised orphans and trained them to carry on in their traditions. Soria could neither picture her parents nor remember their names. The ascetics at the temple knew only her parents’ business in Khesh. Of her origins, all she had was the tale of their deaths: murdered, robbed, stripped of any trinket or document that might have given clues to trace them to their homeland. Her parents’ killers were ruthless and cold-blooded, but not monstrous. Their greed demanded nothing that involved the killing of a child not yet four years old.

  Taken in by responsible but dispassionate folk in the ascetics of the Tezuan Sun, Soria had disconnected herself from the waking world. She sleepwalked through her days to play as a princess in the magical world of Kadrin in her dreams. She had taken Ophelia Archon to be her mother, much more real in her dreams than her own mother had become in her childlike memories, which had faded past hazy to become only memories of memories. Soria had loved it when Juliana had her hair colored fanciful pinks and violets as a young girl, and was saddened each morning when she awoke to find her own mundane looks staring back at her from the washing pool.

  Soria worked her lips about to limber them again after the stretching she had given them, then wiped her wet finger on her tunic. She leaned in close to the aether-formed mirror she had fashioned and gave a big, toothy smile. Perfect, she thought, but had little enthusiasm behind that thought. It felt unnatural—not the magical enhancement but the smile itself. Soria’s smile was impish, sly, even wicked at times, but never like the goofy, vapid look she had just seen. Pretty though it might have been, she could not get her eyes to bolster it properly; it was a smile for show and she knew it. It was the sort of smile Juliana would be needing shortly …

  Soria shook her head to clear that image from her mind. The less she thought of her wedding in Kadrin, the better off she would be.

  Her preening was no reflection upon the other world at all; she wanted to look her best when she finally tracked down Brannis (or Kyrus, or whatever name he wished to use in her world). She had met his counterpart’s paramour, and knew whom she was liable to be compared with. Soria scrunched up her face and gave a disgusted huff.

  Stepping back from the aether mirror for a moment, Soria pulled her tunic off and threw it carelessly on the bed. The captain’s cabin was modest, but it was the best that the Yorgen’s Bluff had to offer and Soria’s troupe had paid more than sufficiently to commandeer it for their voyage to Marker’s Point, as well as a room for Zell, Tanner, and Rakashi to share. Soria wanted her privacy and there were occasions when her contentious friends knew she would not be argued with; sleeping three to a cabin was preferable to a bloodied nose or broken arm.

  Using a bit of well-practiced telekinesis, Soria reached under the overlapping layers of her tailored leather armor and undid the clasps. It was made so that there was no way for a weapon to reach any buckle or binding. All those were tucked safely underneath. With the armor loose about her, she pulled it over her head much the same way she had done with her tunic, though more carefully, mindful of the metal edges of the neck guard. With the sweat-dampened inner lining away from her skin, there was a pleasant and refreshing chill to the air. She removed the leather leggings as well and then walked barefoot back to the mirror.

  She knew she looked much less like Juliana when comparing more than just faces. Though the same height and general build, the two bodies had been treated far differently in their young lives. Juliana was thin, pale, and looked like her arms and legs were brittle as wicker. Soria had the body of an acrobat, with each muscle carefully carved upon her skin and no bit of wasted flesh anywhere. She was also darker skinned, not from any quirk of birth, but from being far less sheltered from sunny days and outdoor labors—in fact, the only reason she had bothered wearing her armor at all was that, by the captain’s request, she had tried to stop being a distraction to the crew.

  She wore nothing bu
t underbreeches and a cloth wrap that encircled her chest. The latter was a quintessentially Kheshi garment, considered suitable for public wearing in the warmer climes. Kheshi women were far less sheltered from day labor than the comparatively pampered ladies in the northlands. While the well-to-do might flaunt their curves and act as living decorations for their menfolk, more active women found them burdensome, and ascetic warrior women more so than most. Easily thrice her body length, the cloth bound up her womanly assets and kept them out of her way when fighting. Ever since her first flowering and the accompanying changes that went with it, Soria had quietly been grateful to have been sparingly endowed. She saw the contortions that some of the more buxom sisters went through to keep their bosoms from interfering with their movements—thicker, wider wraps than hers, bound so tightly it was painful just to look at.

  Reluctantly Soria untied the wrap where the two ends met and began unwinding it. She felt self-conscious, despite her assurance that she was alone, as well as silly, vain, and … inadequate. As she surveyed her reflection, she could not help but compare herself to Kyrus’s woman. Peasant teeth, but udders a cow might envy, she thought bitterly, turning sideways and pushing her breasts up to try to envision them larger. Is that what Brannis really likes? Celia’s are bigger too. I mean, he never mentioned it, but we were so young back then.

  Juliana had done a little here and there to get hers to fill out a dress a bit better; “silly” and “vain” were concepts that fit well with her life. Soria had always lived more practically. She had always seen attracting men as a means to an end—and not the one the men hoped for—but had gotten by on charm and attitude. She could be as forward as a tax collector, and few men could defend themselves against such brash advances. But her ends were information, access to valuable objects … or murder. Brannis’s twin she wanted to keep, and that meant more than just befuddling that dumb part of the male mind that hid behind a codpiece for long enough to get what she wanted.

  With another sigh, she let her little companions flop the short distance back to where they belonged. I will worry about that later. I can judge Brannis’s reaction before I go messing about, changing how my armor fits, she reasoned. Maybe once we are rich enough to retire like royalty, I won't mind so much. If his twin is as good a sorcerer as he is not, we ought to be able to conquer ourselves a nice little corner of the world for our very own.

  Retrieving a clean wrap from among her belongings, Soria recomposed herself for venturing out on deck.

  * * * * * * * *

  It was evening by the time Soria met Zell and Rakashi at the bow of the ship. Tanner had been recruited for a Crackle game in the crew quarters, but the sailors were wary of the huge mercenary and the Takalish who wore war-braids and a half-spear. The two of them were passing a bottle of brandy back and forth, taking swigs as if it were cheap wine as they conversed.

  “We’ll make the Point tomorrow, maybe midday,” Zell said. “Captain doesn’t think we’ll have any trouble with the weather.”

  “No. I would think not,” Rakashi replied thoughtfully. “The clouds in front of us look placid.”

  Indeed, the reddish-grey wisps in the sky looked far from threatening in the direction they traveled, south and east. The sun hung low in the sky to the starboard side of the ship, and a second sun danced beneath it, reflected in the water of the swelling sea.

  “Evening, boys,” Soria called out as she approached, swaggering across the deck. She was wearing her tunic thrown loosely over her wrapped chest—a compromise between modesty and a desire to let her sweaty armor air out before putting it back on in the morning.

  “Done teasing the crew, are you?” Zell chided her, knowing that she cared little whether men eyed her, so long as they kept to just that.

  Despite her scant attire, the sailors aboard the Yorgen’s Bluff had initially been wary of her “bodyguards” when she came aboard. When it became apparent that none of them were either her lover or particularly watchful of her, they had grown bolder. Rakashi had to take a few aside quietly and warn them—not of anything he would do, but rather that none of her three companions would protect them from her should she take offense.

  “I like having a cabin of my own, but I need the air,” she replied, settling in next to them, leaning against the ship’s railing.

  “Well, it’s gonna be a cool night if you’re planning on being out here a while, ’specially with just that flimsy thing to cover you. Care to knock a swallow off the top, to keep the chill away?” Zell handed her the bottle.

  The label was Takalish, but nothing they had brought aboard with them. She could barely read any Takalish, but it seemed to claim it was from Khetlu. Whether that was a distillery or a town, she knew not, but she had never heard of it. She took a sniff.

  “No, not tonight,” she stated, pushing it back into the big man’s hands. “Stuff’s strong enough, for sure. Few turns at the neck of that and I’d have no trouble sleeping tonight.”

  “Big day tomorrow,” Zell said in a transparent effort to sound positive.

  He knew as well as anyone that she was not eager for Juliana’s wedding. Because he was captain of the House Archon guards, Juliana had appointed him as her oath guardian without anyone thinking much of it. For the past week, leading up to the wedding itself, they had been nearly inseparable. It was his job to make sure nothing untoward happened to Juliana before she was married. Like the position of oathkeeper, the job was largely ceremonial, but in Zellisan’s case, he was chosen so that Juliana could have someone to complain to about it in two worlds.

  “I have no intention of falling asleep tonight,” Soria said. “She’s on her own this time.”

  Soria felt petty and a bit guilty about leaving her twin—her other self—alone at such a time, but bearing witness was nothing she wanted a part of. She would have memories of it afterward as if she had been there, so all she would really miss would be the visceral feeling of being locked up in a marriage she had not wanted. Oh, and I will get to miss the wedding night as well. No great loss there. Juliana had taken Iridan into her bed a handful of times, first when drunk, then with a vague intention of whipping him into some semblance of a man before she married him.

  “Long night, then. Want me to wait up with you?” Zell sounded uncharacteristically sympathetic.

  He was not half the grizzled warmonger he presented himself as. He kept up a good ruse, but they had known each other too long for such a facade to hold up against real emotion. He was the first to have discovered Juliana’s gift for seeing into the other world, a common guard in House Archon’s service who inquired about the strange, troubling dreams that woke his six-summer-old charge crying in the middle of the night. He had taken the fragmented story and his own knowledge of the other world and taught the young Juliana how being twinborn worked. Eventually, when she was old enough to be on her own, he sought Soria out in person.

  “No, I know you are looking forward to the whole loud, shiny, flowery mess. Go ahead and get to it. Get an early start,” Soria told him. She came close to telling him to reacquaint himself with Brannis, but she wanted to keep their quarry’s identity a surprise. For all the rest of them knew, Kyrus Hinterdale was just another potential recruit, albeit one with exceptional promise, if he was the sorcerer he was rumored to be.

  “Fine by me, then. Just don’t get too down, you hear me? It’ll work out okay.” Zell gave Soria a perfunctory hug, and lumbered off to the cabin he shared with Tanner and Rakashi.

  “I will keep you company if you like,” Rakashi spoke quietly, as if hesitant to interrupt her thoughts.

  She found him so unlike the other two. When forced to share accommodations, he was the one she bunked with. He had taken a wanderer’s oath, which both freed him and bound him. While away from Takalia, he would father no children, nor would he spill the blood of his own people. By swearing the oath, he was free to pursue his travels free from the other moral restraints of Takalish life. He was free to flaunt the laws of other nat
ions—at his own peril of course—and bring no dishonor on himself. Soria found it a strange custom, but it was for that reason that she trusted him to tend her wounds and knead sore muscles loose without fear of him taking advantage.

  “If you drank half what was missing from that bottle, I don’t know that you have much say in the matter,” she joked.

  “I did not.”

  Even with Zell, whom she had known most of her life, she tried to maintain her air of toughness. Somehow she did not mind so much if Rakashi saw her cry.

  * * * * * * * *

  The crowd gasped as a gout of flame billowed from the magician’s fingers. He was an older gentleman, distinguished and genteel in manner, with the boyish looks accentuated by grey hair rather than given lie to by it. That grey hair hung loose about the magician’s shoulders and snapped smartly to a point at his bearded chin. He wore a black dress coat that would not have looked out of place if worn by a magistrate and he covered his hands with white gloves. A flat-topped silk hat sat not upon his head, but rather waved about in one hand while the other gesticulated with a pointed stick.

  “Now, before I move on to my next trick, I would like to demonstrate that this hat is empty.”

  The magician, known professionally as Wendell the Wizard, held the open end of the hat out toward the audience that gathered all about him a few paces away. He had commandeered a sizable chunk of plaza space in Marker’s Point and people were packed in and around the merchants’ stalls to get a better view of him.

  A few hecklers in the crowd complained that they would not be able to see if there was anything shady with the hat.

  “Suit yourselves,” Wendell said, “but toss it back when you are satisfied. I have nothing to fear from its close examination.”

  With that, Wendell threw the hat into the crowd. It was grabbed and rumpled and generally mistreated as a dozen denizens of the rough port city gave it a thorough once-over. Amazingly the hat was returned in serviceable condition.