by J. S. Morin
“Well, as I said, I had hoped to meet him personally, and I still do. If he comes to you, have him seek me out. However, I know that I have not much time left. I find my health failing faster than I had accounted for in my planning,” Expert Conniton said, snorting in self-derision. “If the day comes when Kyrus returns, and I have expired, have him seek out Lord Dunston Harwick in my stead.”
“Lord Harwick?” Davin asked, perplexed. “The magistrate?”
“That is the one. We are … kindred spirits, you might say. He will want to see Kyrus, I am sure.”
“What make Kyrus so important to you … if you do not mind my asking, of course?” Davin hastily amended, remembering to whom he spoke.
“I had certain suspicions about him after reading a book he copied. I have shared my suspicions with Lord Harwick, and he will look into them on my behalf if I am unable.”
“What sort of suspicions?”
Expert Conniton paused for a moment, pursing his lips, before answering. “I suspect we might be … distantly related. I suppose that would be my suspicion.”
* * * * * * * *
On a moonless night in a secluded vale, a slim, fey figure knelt in the mud, heedless of the white gown she wore. Tiny hands pressed lightly into the muck to support her as she hung her face over a puddle. Light radiating from that puddle cast her features in harsh relief against the dark of night, colors dancing in patterns too muted by reflection to make any attempt at ascribing meaning to them.
With but a thought—half a thought even—she could have held herself aloft and clear of nature’s grime, but the scenes she witnessed playing out before her held her rapt. She had not the thought to spare.
A splash in the water shocked her from her reverie. The image in the puddle wobbled and warped as the echoing ripples of a rock’s passing spread. She glanced about, startled, unused to being approached unawares.
“Viyax!” Illiardra scolded when she noted the bronze-skinned intruder upon her privacy. “Why did you do that?”
“It seems you are becoming too attached to something you know will not last. You said yourself you expect him to fail,” Viyax said.
“I may have, but I keep seeing signs of hope,” Illiardra countered.
“Hope for which of them?” Viyax asked, smiling like a cat who had just trapped a mouse in a corner. “I thought you had given up on Rashan.”
“Both. It is the same hope: redemption.”
Viyax peered over her and into the vision in the puddle, a look of detached interest on his face. Illiardra watched him watch. A sudden look of disgust curled Viyax’s features, and he cringed. Illiardra’s eyes snapped wide as she spun about on her knees, and looked to see what had befallen.
“No!” she screamed when she saw.
She slammed a small fist into the puddle, splashing both of them with crystal-clear water as her hand hit the muddy bottom. The spell ended, and the water became just water again. Leaping to her feet, the mud on her hands, knees, and dress sloughing off to leave every bit of her pristine, she ran off into the night, sobbing.
Viyax watched her depart. He stood for a while staring at the ruin of the scrying puddle. After a time, he shook his head slowly, shrugged, and walked off in a different direction.
Chapter 26 - Pieces of the Past
It was an unusual book, and Kyrus was an expert on books. The script within it was sloppy, harsh, and if Kyrus could attribute emotion to lifeless ink on paper, it was angry. Flecks of ink were scattered here and there; Kyrus would have discarded and rewritten them had it been his own work. There were smudges as well. It contained empty pages in plenty; nearly the last half of the tome was blank. The book must have been created blank, and been written in as a bound volume. Kyrus assumed it had been written as a journal rather than compiled from notes.
Kyrus leafed through the pages, hardly stopping to make out words. He watched for changes in the character of the writing. At times, it grew slack, flowery, and lazy. Other pages were barely legible, looking as if they had been scratched out in great haste or with great anger, leaving scores where quill had gouged into paper. Likely there were ways to tell the age of ink or paper, but Kyrus did not know them, neither magical nor scientific. He suspected years might have passed between individual entries, though it was mere speculation on his part.
Kyrus sat with a readied quill, ink, and a stack of paper beside him when he began to read. He intended to copy the contents before finding a way to return the original to Rashan’s possession.
The large majority of the passages were gibberish, or at least they were as he began. As he got farther along, he began to take note of themes, repeated imagery, and allusions to historical events that Brannis had learned of as a boy. It might take many readings, Kyrus knew, before he could understand the contents.
Kyrus read one of the more lucid passages:
Lion cub, copper crown
Grows but never grows father’s claws
Purrs his orders, his pack grows wheat and worships scarecrows
His only hunter kills his cubs
His only hunter steals his cub
His only hunter waits and feasts on carrion
Another read:
Fallow field, fertile mind
Potato planted but grows into grape
The vintage will only tell with time
We sip the vintner’s craft whether we choke or revel in it
A drunkard captains the ship we all sail on but does not steer it
These two passages Kyrus made a note of in his own copy, suggesting a link between them and the historical events they foretold. If he could find similar links elsewhere in the prophecies, he might be able to construct a rough chronology of the entries.
Kyrus could make no sense of any entry for a long while. They seemed to rage, making vague threats against uncertain foes. It was disturbing to read, knowing that it was Rashan who had written it all. The worst he found among them read:
Breathing blood
Thinking fire
Eating hope
Deaf to mercy
Blind to fear
Cities become tombs
The grateful chain held by no hand
Kyrus was tempted to give in to the lure of sleep, but he felt the need to see the task of copying the book through in a single night. Even if he did not understand everything he read—or even much of it—he needed to see it all.
Time started swimming in Kyrus’s head. The drawn curtains of his window showed no fringe of light about them to suggest that sunlight dwelt outside, but that was the only clue he had as to how long he had read. His eyes burned with fatigue, making it hard to bring the scratchy text into focus. Kyrus noted that there seemed to be more consistency between passages later in the book, at least insomuch as it looked like it was written in a similar hand. He decided that the entries were being written with less time between them.
Kyrus noticed another trend as well. There seemed to be more specifics mentioned. He could not identify everything, but he strongly suspected a correlation to actual events that took place.
“If these are actual events, then what place would they have in prophecies?” Kyrus wondered aloud, a clear sign that he was overtired. “Who predicts events that have already taken place?”
Kyrus closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples, trying to think. He needed to find historical references to compare the prophetic texts to. If he could begin matching entries to Kadrin history, he might discover the reason. Tired as he was, he could not make the link solely within his own head.
He made note of three more entries:
Death fights the act of death
How many times must Death be killed
One more
One more
Never
To stop the rebirth of Death
First defeat death
Then Death
Followed by:
Broken vase spills blue-white blood
The missing pieces are keys that lo
ck the final door
Patch the wholes that are only halves
And lastly:
One vase, filling fast, spilling faster
To see another, no mirror may reflect it
Where to find its shadow, an absence not a copy
Seek a way among the spirits
Piecing together the three of those seemed to be the key. They were not consecutive in the text but seemed related. He would need fresh eyes—and a fresh mind—to make any further progress. Kyrus set the book cover-down on his desk, with the spine facing the wall, then set two others atop it. His loose-sheet copy he rolled, and put into a case that had contained a report from Pevett.
He fell asleep in his clothes, atop the blankets.
* * * * * * * *
Rakashi found Soria breaking her fast on a meal of bacon and eggs in the common room. They had stayed overnight at an inn whose Takalish name translated to “Quiet Sea.” The rocky outcroppings north of the port city of Daisha shielded the small, expensive establishment from the noise of the busy port. Soria and her companions had grown accustomed to the finest accommodations, and spared little expense in their choice of lodgings.
“Just you this morning?” Rakashi asked, pulling up a chair next to her.
“Brannis sleeps like a bear. Our ship won’t leave until noontime, so I left him in our room. Figured it was easier than trying to wake him,” Soria said, not bothering to wait between bites. She ate like a warrior, not a lady, Rakashi noted, not for the first time. She shoveled her food in until her cheeks bulged, washing it down with ale even in the morning hours. He wondered how much of her behavior was rebellion against the strictures of Kadrin life, and how much was just how she preferred to live. It was the hatred of those strictures that he needed.
“Has having him here, in Tellurak, made life in Kadrin easier?” Rakashi asked. “I remember how upset you were when you told me of your betrothal. Before your wedding day, you were worse. You seem happier now but what of Juliana?”
“Philosophical this morning?” Soria asked, casting a sidelong glance at Rakashi. “I am fine. I have Kyrus there now too, don’t forget. Iridan didn’t even stay long after the wedding. We had a fight.” Soria stuffed another forkful of eggs into her mouth, forestalling any elaboration.
“What did you argue over?” Rakashi asked. “Was it something to do with Brannis?”
“You’re starting to sounds like the House Archon lady-servants, you know. And I never said we argued. I made some jest about his manhood, and he took a swing at me, caught me off guard,” Soria said, not looking in Rakashi’s direction.
“How cowardly …” Rakashi said, developing a stronger dislike for Iridan than he had known before. He preferred it, suspecting that he would face him soon in Munne as Tiiba. Just from talking with Soria, he knew that Rashan was still in Kadris, not making trouble in the newly conquered city. “You tell me much; why had I not heard of this? I would have offered solace, you know this.”
“Spare me the maiden rescue, Rakashi,” Soria replied. “You know my temper. I stopped myself just short of killing him with my bare hands.”
“Juliana bested the new warlock?” Rakashi asked, a bemused grin spreading across his face, white teeth shining out from his dark features.
“Hey now! I might have bruised some knuckles and twisted a wrist, but I can fight,” Soria said, vexing Rakashi with her persistent use of the first person for both herself and Juliana. She was the only twinborn he had known to suffer that particular foible. “For my coin, Kadrin still only has one warlock. Iridan panics when he’s caught off guard … aether-burned himself trying to raise a shield spell.”
“Have you heard from him since he left?” Rakashi shifted the conversation slightly.
“Naw …” Soria turned and gave Rakashi a long look. “I get it. He’s not twinborn, so you’re trying to sneak around our little pact, right? I might tell you about my marriage problems like you were the girl who helps me into festival-day dresses, but I’m not going to sell out my husband or Kadrin that easily.” She winked, making it appear a jest. Rakashi shrugged with a little smile, because after all, he could not deny the charge.
“Is there really so much difference between Iridan and his father?” Rakashi asked, hoping Soria might find the question less invasive.
Soria bit into a strip of bacon, leaving only a morsel the size of her thumbnail. She held it out for Rakashi’s inspection.
“The difference between this and a whole pig,” she told him.
“What of Kyrus?” Rakashi asked. “He is one of us, and yours in particular. I am merely quite curious.”
“Even in jest, I would stay well clear of Kyrus. I don’t think Brannis trusts you yet, but he has enough self-control not to act rashly. Kyrus isn’t like Iridan. When he panics, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near him; you saw Marker’s Point. Even with the bit of magic he knows, I think Rashan’s nervous around him.”
Rakashi took her advice to heart. While Iridan was his problem in Munne, he would do all within his power to steer clear of the Acardian twinborn.
* * * * * * * *
Rakashi sought his own morning meal after that exchange, leaving Soria alone for a moment. She suspected that his interest in Iridan was something of a practical matter. If the reports of Iridan terrorizing Munne were accurate, it would not surprise her to hear that Rakashi’s counterpart had been sent to deal with him. She was not certain how she felt about that. For all her claims that Iridan was no warlock, he was certainly powerful in his own way. She would be furious with him should anything happen to Rakashi, whom she loved like a brother.
The thought sobered her when she put it in those terms. Their years of conflict—much of it instigated by her—had never resulted in her hating Iridan, but despite the trappings of marriage, neither did she love him. He was always Brannis’s little puppy, following Brannis around even when he was not wanted. He had been an annoyance but a familiar one. Yes, that was it: “familiar”—that was how she felt about Iridan.
The part about Kyrus worried her more. There had been two books she had thought to leave him. The book of prophecies was a warning; things went on inside the head of her oathfather that Kyrus might puzzle out better than she, and none of it seemed reassuring. The second book she had found in her room after receiving the first. She could only assume it was left by her fey oathmother as well. The title had read The Peace of Tallax. She knew the name, associated with ancient legends, but nothing of the story behind it. Having read the whole of it—more than she normally read in a season—she could not decide whether to share it with Kyrus as well.
Chapter 27 - Lone Warlock
Iridan navigated the back streets of Munne by aether-sight. The spring rains had let up sometime after midnight, leaving every surface wet, and a light fog hanging amid the stone buildings, but the skies had not cleared. There was scant light to avoid tripping by, and he was not foolish enough to create any for himself.
He was playing a game of hide-from-his-lordship with Megrenn’s occupation forces, but during the nighttime hours, he was not the one who hid. Three nights running, he had hunted them, leaving corpses and fire-gutted buildings in his wake. It might take him half a season to cleanse the city of enemy troops, but he was determined to see it through.
He peered around an ivy-covered wall, using its scraggly Source to help conceal his own. There was a patrol on foot, a dozen infantry with one especially strong Source among them, which seemed like as not to be a sorcerer.
“It seems they are looking for me,” Iridan muttered aloud, a habit that was growing the longer he spent alone. Folk who were intent on his demise made for poor conversation, and he could not abide the prolonged silences when he was alone. “Whether they mean to confront me or avoid me, it seems they have not noticed me.” The newly regrown teeth felt strange in his mouth, but at least he could speak normally again.
Iridan began drawing aether very slowly. It was a simple trick, drawing just enough to offse
t the aether a Source gave off. It was not enough to appear invisible in the aether, but it made it much easier to hide a strong Source among weaker ones. For his sword, there was not much he could do, save hope that his adversaries were less vigilant; Dragon’s Whisper showed up clearly in the aether, and he had not the talent in illusion to hide that.
The patrol was heading away from him, so Iridan slipped from behind his cover, blade drawn and held in one hand. His boots scraped on the cobbled roads, and made tiny, wet, sucking splashes where he stepped in the ubiquitous shallow puddles. The soldiers in the patrol were conversing among themselves, however, and were wearing metal armor. The noise Iridan made was drowned out. Iridan quickened his step, knowing it was only a matter of time before—
There was a shout, something in Megrenn that Iridan understood by context, and not by vocabulary. The soldiers turned, swords drawn. Iridan could only tell the latter by their stance, using aether-vision as he was. The patrol, rather than taking up a defensive stance or launching an attack, rushed sidelong, spreading out to either side as if to contain Iridan’s escape.
“As if I planned to run,” Iridan said, muttering to himself as he launched a spread of fiery darts at the Megrenn soldiers.
“Fire and steel, those are what you kill with. All else is vanity,” Rashan had instructed him. “Strike to wound, to maim. Obliterating foes wastes aether. Conserve for your defenses.” The lessons had been sinking in now that he had worn himself down over the course of his nightly raids, body and Source alike.
Many of the darts struck home. A few hit metal armor to little effect, but most caught cloak, hair, or skin. Men screamed, dropping to the wet ground for relief from the fires.
A pair of Iridan’s magical projectiles had struck a shielding spell that had not been active when the attack was launched. The sorcerer among the Megrenn patrol had quick reflexes with his magic. Less concerned about the common soldiers, Iridan was about to launch a more focused attack on the sorcerer when he saw a blade spring to life in the aether.
