Aethersmith (Book 2)

by J. S. Morin

  Heavy footsteps from the upper floors heralded the waking of Zellisan. The big man had trouble recovering from the wakeful night, and Wendell had preferred to wait for him to awaken rather than take Jadon out by himself to perform.

  “You still here? Thought you would have gone off, and left me the boy, or at least gone to do your tricks, and take him with you. I think he’s past the point of running off, by now,” Zellisan said once he reached the common room. His greasy black beard and hair looked just as slovenly as ever, his recent awakening detracting little from his typically disreputable appearance.

  “I thought this morning I might make an exception,” Wendell said. He drew Jadon’s attention to his other hand, producing the coin, and handing it to the boy, prompting a whole new examination, this time directed at the mischievous currency.

  “Well, under the circumstances, I can understand that,” Zell said. “You’re welcome.”

  Wendell smiled at Zellisan’s presumption.

  “Well, yes, there is that. But more than that, I think your assignment has been completed. I have Jadon, safe and recovering, and we are in the middle of Takalia. No place is perfect but Takalia is a fair sight safer than most lands. Jadon even has a bit of a Source in him, so he will be able to learn real magic, not just the paltry tricks I can manage. In a year or two, he might not even need me to defend him.”

  “Hey now,” Zell said. “Remember, I was the one passing those messages back and forth. I know that this is far from over. You have one of the most dangerous men in Tellurak riled, and likely wondering how he can track you down. I don’t think I’m done protecting you by a half measure.”

  “I might need a lot less protection if we could just hide. You stand out a bit, my friend,” Wendell argued.

  “Yeah, that whole standing on street corners and in marketplaces and making magic birds appear … really bad habit of mine. Draws a lot of attention,” Zellisan countered.

  Wendell wondered if his own sarcasm was rubbing off. “I do not have to perform, you know.”

  “I’m not sure about that. It seems to be in your blood. I have coin enough to hide us all somewhere out of the way. You don’t need to perform to eat.”

  “I need to wake him up,” Wendell said.

  “And when it winds up with hired blades sniffing around for us on Denrik Zayne’s coin, I’ll be here to do something about it.”

  * * * * * * * *

  After trying to find the manor first by Brannis’s memories of what Kyrus knew of Scar Harbor, then of Soria’s best guess as to where it ought to have been, the two eventually relented, and took a carriage to the gates of the small manor home where Tomas Harwick abided with his father, at least while Lord Harwick was staying in the city. Despite Tomas’s promise to cover the expense of their transport, Sir Erund and Mrs. Soria Hinterdale were world travelers, and not without the means of affording their own conveyance. There was a way of acquitting oneself in society that Soria knew well: Tomas making the offer was good form; accepting it would have been poor form, as would either party mentioning the matter again.

  Tomas and Abbiley greeted them at the door. Brannis felt odd being in her presence. It was like spying on Celia without her knowing. Abbiley gave him queer looks, but he suspected the matter of the painting was at issue; she thought he looked like Kyrus. He got no sense that she realized who Soria was, and if Celia was lurking just behind those innocent blue eyes, Juliana’s twin ought to have looked nearly as familiar as Brannis.

  “Dinner will be set out shortly. My father will be down shortly thereafter. I believe my butler is helping him preen,” Tomas joked. “He can be quite vain, our Lord Harwick.”

  “Tomas!” Abbiley chided, smiling despite her tone. “Lord Harwick isn’t even here to defend himself. You should at least give your father the courtesy of poking your fun at him when he is here.”

  Brannis found himself smiling as well, until he caught Soria’s gaze, frowning slightly at him. He smoothed his features once more into dignified politeness.

  “He seemed quite eager to meet you. Once my father puts his mind in a certain frame, it consumes him. You have the fortune of being named Hinterdale at a time when my father is quite interested in the Hinterdale name. The whole ‘witch trial’ business reflected poorly on the kingdom, and he is rather intent on patching up the holes it left.”

  “Well, I am eager to meet him as well,” Brannis said in reply. He did well to keep his apprehension in check. He and Soria were both unarmored, and she unarmed. As a knight, it was socially acceptable for him to be armed with Avalanche even at a polite dinner. Depending on the scope of the conspiracy, he hoped that it would be enough. More than that, he hoped it would not be needed at all.

  Servants brought out a course of soups for them to occupy themselves as they awaited the lord. Wine was poured for them as well, a Takalish vintage some twenty years old. Brannis found himself trying to piece together the contents of the soup and the origins of the wine, and make some prejudgment of the lord, find some small thing he could deduce that could be of use. He took a calming breath. He resolved to wait, and observe with a clear mind instead.

  Lord Dunston Harwick arrived just before the first course of dinner. He was older than Brannis had expected by Tomas’s age, which he had guessed at perhaps thirty summers—years, he reminded himself. The lord’s hair was gone to grey nearly completely, with a few black strands to be seen among them. His face was wrinkled and sagged, but there was something too familiar about it to dismiss out of hand—something more than the rough resemblance to his son.

  “Tomas, you were not wrong,” Lord Harwick bellowed jovially. “Sir Erund here is the very image of Miss Abbiley’s painting. It would almost seem as if the painting had called him to her.”

  “Father, allow me to introduce Sir Erund Hinterdale and his wife, Lady Soria,” Tomas said.

  Soria extended her hand, which Lord Harwick took delicately in his own, but did not make the old-fashioned gesture of kissing it. Brannis offered his own, and shook the lord’s hand, feeling a grip that he suspected had never been crushing, even in the lord’s younger years. He met Lord Harwick’s gaze straight on as he did so, looking for some spark, some flinch, some sign of recognition, but found nothing.

  Introductions passed, they took their seats for dinner. After some tiny meat pastries, they were served a meal of roasted duck in a sauce made with Kheshi spices. The servants refilled their wines, prompting Lord Harwick to rise from his seat.

  “I would like to propose a toast,” he called out. Everyone else rose and took up their own glasses. “As they said in ancient Garnevia, ‘Play along, and we shall speak later.’”

  The latter was not Garnevian at all, Brannis knew, unless the ancient Garnevians spoke Kadrin. Well, the conspiracy is real, Brannis realized. I hate being right at times.

  “Hear, hear,” all mumbled in rough unison. Brannis exchanged a quick look with his “wife,” and her expression told him that she had been paying attention as well. Drat. I should have been looking for a reaction from Abbiley, not Soria.

  Brannis fumed at himself a moment, careful to keep any hint of his turbulent thoughts out of his expression as the conversation turned to pleasantries and amusing stories—the sort of things that people talked about when they were not part of inter-world power struggles. Brannis played along, as he had been told to do, but found himself fidgeting at the table as the meal wore on.

  At long last, after four courses and a dessert of pumpkin pie, the meal was called to a close.

  “Tomas, perhaps tonight would be a nice night for a carriage ride. There is a clear sky, and I know how Miss Abbiley loves stargazing. It will allow me to have some time to interview our guests,” Lord Harwick said.

  “Father … always working,” Tomas mused with a slow shake of his head. Still, the younger Harwick took his father’s advice, and departed with Abbiley.

  “We can speak in my study,” Lord Harwick said to Brannis and Soria once Tomas and Abb
iley were beyond hearing. With no further explanation, Lord Harwick led them upstairs.

  Up one flight and down a short hallway, Lord Harwick opened a door. Soria, who had been walking with her arm twined with Brannis’s, pulled up short. Lord Harwick, more observant that one might have expected of a man of advancing years, took note.

  “Yes, it is warded. I can explain inside.”

  Soria glanced up at Brannis, her look telling him to be on guard … or that she was suspicious … possibly that they were making a mistake—Brannis had never quite gotten the hang of all the things he was supposed to be able to infer from her various looks. He shrugged in reply, too far committed to turn back, even if they might be walking into a trap. He followed Lord Harwick into the study.

  “Tomas does no real work, so the study in his home is mainly for my use when I visit. Close the door, and we might converse without minding our voices,” Lord Harwick instructed Brannis, who complied.

  Lord Harwick seated himself behind the dark-stained oak desk, and rummaged in the drawers as Brannis and Soria found chairs to pull up across from him. Lord Harwick pulled out a pipe, and some pipeweed; it lit with no need for tinder, to the surprise of neither twinborn. The lord also pulled out three small glasses and a crystal decanter filled with an amber liquid.

  “I never quite expected this day would come, Brannis,” Lord Harwick said in Kadrin, not looking Brannis’s way as he poured them all drinks. He slid two across the desk, and Brannis and Soria took one apiece, neither drinking as they waited for the little drama Lord Harwick was playing out. “I went to quite a bit of trouble getting you here, playing both sides, holding the knife by the blade.” He looked up at Brannis, pipe clamped in his mouth, drink in hand, and smiled.

  “Caladris!” Brannis exclaimed. He had seen that same expression on his uncle’s face, looking twenty summers younger than Lord Harwick, and thicker of both face and gut than the somewhat stout lord.

  “You?” Soria asked.

  “Yes, me,” Harwick replied. “And you …” He took the pipe from his mouth, and pointed the stem at Brannis’s chest. “… really are Brannis Solaran. Fit me for a saddle if that boy Kyrus is not something unnatural!”

  “Wait, so you are behind this conspiracy? To what end?” Brannis demanded.

  “Conspiracy? Hah! Pick one!” Harwick scoffed. “Brannis, I have petty schemes, wrapped around minor plots, disguising treasons. Where would you like me to start?”

  “Can you tell him whether his peasant girl here is Celia or not? He’s been insufferable about it of late,” Soria requested.

  Brannis turned to give her a scowl, but saw such an earnest plea in her eyes that he nodded his agreement, and waited for his uncle to answer her.

  “Not. There are a few twists around that particular mystery, but before you blame me for it, I must tell you it was the warlock’s idea. He is wary of Kyrus, Brannis. The boy is raw as pheasant on the wing, but no one has seen power like that, bottled up in just one body. He figured if Kyrus has a sweetheart, he’d make a twinborn of her, and keep the Kadrin version close when you were about.”

  “But there were so many little details, things I never told him,” Brannis said. “All I gave him that he could have used was her name and likeness. How did he get Celia that information?”

  “Well, that, I am afraid, I must confess to. A name was all I needed, the likeness was just what Rashan needed to pick a girl out to match. The fact that Celia looked so much like her was good fortune for Rashan, but those tiny little flames you keep stamping on that you have for Celia … that, I believe, was Kyrus’s influence on you.”

  “Too convenient,” Soria said, crossing her arms and frowning.

  “Lucky, perhaps, but had Abbiley and Celia not shared a close enough resemblance as to perhaps be explained by those vain cosmetic magics you ladies fancy—and I must heartily voice my support of them, Acardia could use their like—well, Rashan would have found someone else,” Harwick explained.

  “Did she know?” Brannis asked. It was his turn to show anger. Kyrus had promised to protect her. Had she been playing him for the fool?

  “Abbiley, no. I planted images in her mind that led her to paint that portrait of you. Celia, yes,” Lord Harwick said, somberly at the last. He knew that he might be condemning Celia, Brannis realized. He turned to see Soria’s reaction. She stared ahead, not showing a response. “We could have tried planting simple ideas in her mind, like I did with Abbiley, but Celia is a sorceress; strong as I am, she still might have slipped free of the false memories. Instead we took her into our confidence, and trusted that if she could fool Jinzan Fehr when she was captured, she could keep up the act with you as well.”

  “Do I have to wake Kyrus up to keep you from killing her?” Brannis asked Soria.

  “You cannot kill her, Juliana,” Harwick said, choosing to call her by the name he had long known her. “Rashan can know nothing of this. He must believe that Celia is a deterrent to violence near him. If he does not think that you would be hesitant to use strong magics near her, he will look to some other method to leash you. Valuable as you are, he is likely to find a way to kill you, or have you killed, if he thinks you are a threat. There is a terrifying madness that lies just beneath that veneer of control.”

  “Wait, I thought you were Rashan’s indispensible man, his most trusted ally?” Soria asked, bewildered. She took a swig of the brandy in her glass, blinking momentarily as the drink was stronger than she expected.

  “He has to believe that. We lost three of our strongest sorcerers in a fit of his rage. The rest of us he trusts like boys outside the virgin cloister. He watched us, waiting for any of the others who had worked closely with Gravis and Maruk to slip, and betray themselves. I made myself valuable enough that I was able to take over that watch.”

  “You mentioned Gravis and my father; what of Stalia Gardarus?” Brannis asked, picking up on the omission.

  “She was aware but not nearly so guilty as they. He killed her as an example, since otherwise House Gardarus might have gotten ideas that they were above Solaran and Archon. The heart of the emperor conspiracy were Gravis, Maruk, Dolvaen, and myself,” Harwick explained.

  “But why? Why are you going to all this trouble? If everyone opposed Rashan, why not all unite against him?” Soria asked.

  “They were scared,” Brannis said.

  Lord Harwick closed his eyes and sighed. He nodded his admission as he took a drink from his own glass.

  “Dolvaen is resourceful. He has stayed out of trouble with Rashan despite openly opposing him and secretly working against him. It is the openness that has fooled Rashan thus far. The warlock is devilishly clever, but admitting his opposition has made Dolvaen a known threat, a mere political adversary. I think Rashan even admires him, after a fashion—the principled stand against his stewardship and the purity of the imperial line … all quite admirable.”

  “But then, what about the murders?” Brannis said. “Celia told me you arranged them, had her carry them out.”

  “That was for your benefit, I am afraid. Dolvaen’s support was growing, threatening to expand beyond the point where it could be hidden.”

  “How does that benefit me?” Brannis asked.

  “Kyrus was going to be forced to take sides. There could not be an open rebellion in Kadris with you remaining neutral. If you sided with Rashan, then Dolvaen’s faction would have been crushed. If you sided with Dolvaen, you would have been pitted against Rashan directly. Strong as you are, I do not think that would bode well for you, or for our chances of eventually putting the fire to that demon.”

  “So what now?” Soria asked.

  “We wait for the time to be right. Brannis, you must make sure Kyrus takes no overt interest in battle magic or anything else that makes you a more immediate concern for Rashan. He likes you, values you, but at the same time, one misstep might be all it takes for him to decide you are no longer worth the risk of keeping alive. If luck plays into our hands, we might s
ecure the Staff of Gehlen, which might give Kyrus enough of an advantage to risk a confrontation, but I think it may be more prudent to slowly master magic until your control matches your Source.”

  “So in the meantime, we just do—”

  “One moment,” Harwick interrupted. His eyes stared past them with heavy lids, unblinking. Brannis and Soria waited, recognizing that far-off look as either aether-vision, or more likely attention paid to Veydrus. “You two should awaken in Kadris. We can continue our discussion another time.”

  Chapter 41 - A Wagon’s Burden

  A steady wooden rumble and the clop of hooves were the only sounds for hours at a time as a lonely wagon made its way across the countryside. Its driver, an elderly Kadrin man with stooped shoulders and a shriveled face, guided it along the trade road toward the city of Kadris. It was wartime, so soldiers were wont to stop stray merchants to check for smugglers and spies. The old wagon driver had been stopped thrice thus far, climbing down from his seat, throwing back the blankets that covered his cargo, and waiting as the soldiers came to look. Each time, the Kadrin soldiers had hurried him along on his way, wanting nothing further to do with him.

  His journey was nearly at an end, he saw. The great towers of Kadris could be seen in the distance, peeking over the low rolls of the uneven landscape. To his left, as he drove, lay Podawei Wood. A moment’s dark whimsy took hold of the driver, and he wondered if the old stories were true about there being spirits deep within the ancient forest. He could leave the wagon, and disappear deep into Podawei, never to be seen by men again. The driver shook his head, dismissing such folly; the horse had never so much as slowed during his musing. No, he preferred to accept his fate, and meet it with some dignity.