by J. S. Morin
Upon his arrival at the outskirts of Kadris, he was stopped once more. The guards at the city limits were of more use than the soldiers he had encountered on the roads. They directed him to the Imperial Palace, where Warlock Rashan Solaran had recently returned. Cargo covered once more, the driver climbed up onto the seat of his wagon, and took the reins in shaking hands. He drove his little wagon across Kadris as the sun set, darkening the streets and his fears. Each step of his horse’s gait was like a grain of sand falling through an hourglass, counting the time until he reached the palace, and his doom.
* * * * * * * *
Kyrus rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he strode down the palace hallways. He had yet to ascertain the reason for Caladris’s warning, but noted that there was more activity than there ought to have been in the palace. Certainly the servants worked round the clock at small tasks, cleaning and preparing while the common areas of the palace were deserted, but nothing on the scale he was seeing.
“You there.” He stopped one of the porters who was passing him in the opposite direction. “What is this ruckus about?”
“Out in the courtyard, your lordship,” the man replied, botching Kyrus’s title in his haste to be free of the conversation. The porter continued on past Kyrus, disappearing down a side hallway.
Kyrus’s mind began puzzling as he walked. There were too many possibilities to even venture a guess. The Daggerstrike had been landed in the gardens behind the palace; the porter might have confused which outdoor venue from whence the disturbance originated. It could also have had something to do with their new charge, Anzik Fehr. Kyrus had heard about the trouble the boy had been in Zorren, and wondered if perhaps he was now causing mischief in Kadris on a scale that would warrant such frenzied activity. Kyrus’s feet kept moving as he thought, guiding him toward his answer, whether he could work it out before he got there or not.
“Brannis!”
The shout came from behind him. He turned to see Celia hastening to catch up with him. A bile rose in Kyrus’s throat as the thought of her betrayal came foremost to his mind. Tempting as it was to confront her about her role in impersonating Abbiley as a twinborn, he knew he had to follow Caladris’s advice. You are a fine actress, Celia, but it is your turn to play the fool.
“Celia! Are you all right?” Kyrus called back, pausing to wait for her. The primitive parts of Kyrus warred within him, one side continuing the belief that she was either Abbiley or at least close enough that it did not matter; the other side screamed for him to slay her where she stood for toying with his feelings.
“Yes, but what is going on here?” Celia reached him, huffing for breath.
“Something outside in the courtyard,” Kyrus replied.
* * * * * * * *
A crowd had gathered, and not the usual rabble that gawked at every little thing of interest. Much of the palace staff had gathered outside in the middle of the night. Courtiers that stayed near the palace were present, and Kyrus saw many of the Empire’s sorcerers in attendance as well. A few had cast balls of light in the air overhead, pushing back the gloom of night, but also casting the crowd in eerie pallor of washed-out light and harsh shadow.
Kyrus pushed his way through. Though he lacked the size to force folk out of his way, the press of bodies parted before him when they realized who was trying to get by. Celia had ventured down to the courtyard with him, taking him by the arm, but he left her behind at the outskirts of the throng.
A horse-drawn wagon was at the center of the mass of gawkers. Rashan was standing in the back of it, looking downward, the demon’s expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. He saw Juliana nearby as well; she had apparently had a quicker time of it than Kyrus had of getting down to investigate. She was pressed against Caladris, not looking at Kyrus as he approached, her face buried against his shoulder. Caladris said something to her, and she turned to see Kyrus.
“Oh, Brannis,” she sobbed, releasing Caladris, and rushing over to Kyrus. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t teased him and shown him up, he would never have gone.”
“Juliana, what’s wrong? What happened?” Kyrus asked, gathering her in his arms, and pulling her close, careless of who saw them together, even with Rashan looming.
“Iridan,” she said simply, turning her head to the wagon.
Kyrus’s blood froze in his chest. He eased himself away from Juliana, walking over to the back of the wagon. Looking inside, he saw the body.
Iridan was laid out inside, wrapped in white linen except for his head. His friend’s face was a greying blue, pocked with small wounds that would now never heal. He saw a bit of discolored flesh around the neck, and surmised the cause of death. Someone had used magic—a bit still lingered about Iridan’s neck in the aether—to reattach the head. The joining had been imperfect, but was more respectful than returning the body in pieces.
Kyrus looked up at Rashan Solaran, who had not moved since he had arrived. The warlock’s head turned slightly, acknowledging Kyrus.
“My legacy …”—Rashan spoke softly; Kyrus could barely hear him—“… snatched away from me yet again.”
* * * * * * * *
By sunset of the following night, all the arrangements had been made. On the grassy grounds behind the Solaran Estate, folk from all over Kadris had gathered. Airships had spent the day delivering nobles and sorcerers from the nearby parts of the surrounding empire as well. No one wished to risk the warlock’s ire by refusing the invitation in his hour of grief.
A pyre of carefully stacked wood stood chest high to Kyrus, covering an area the size of two trellis tables set side by side. Iridan’s body lay atop the pile, dressed in clean, new warlock regalia, with Sleeping Dragon resting on his chest, its hilt beneath Iridan’s crossed hands. The smells of wood chips and pitch overpowered the scent of death that clung to Iridan despite the oils and unguents that had been used to make him look less gruesome in death.
Guards in imperial livery surrounded the pyre, keeping back all but a select few. Emperor Sommick was among those who were permitted near the pyre, as were Juliana, Rashan, Kyrus, and Iridan’s foster parents. Kyrus had made a point to seek them out, personally flying the Daggerstrike out to their home to fetch them, and to tell them the news of Iridan’s death personally. They had taken it better than he had imagined, proud that their son had died fighting for the folk in Munne. Kyrus wished he could have shared their peace of spirit.
One guest whose arrival had caused no small amount of surprise, and whose presence within the guarded area went unchallenged despite receiving no permission to be there, was Illiardra. She arrived accompanied by a disturbance Kyrus felt in the aether that he could only describe as something like the passing of a swarm of butterflies; he saw it more than felt it, and had he not been looking at the time, never would have noticed it. She was dressed in a full-length gown of black silk and matching black cloak, hood pulled low.
“I am sorry for the loss of your friend,” Kyrus heard in his mind. He knew that it was Iridan’s demonic mother who had addressed him.
“How did you know to come here?” Kyrus asked in kind.
“I watched. I saw him fall. I saw him brought here.”
“If you were watching, why did you not save him?” Kyrus demanded, his anger flowing clearly in a medium of nothing but thought.
“He could have been saved, but not by me. Had I intervened, I might have spared his life for a time, but he would have suffered more greatly in the end.”
“If you could not have saved him, who could have?”
“Two who, each for their own reasons, could not bring themselves to.”
“Do you mean me and Juliana? Were we what stood between Iridan and death? What could I have done?”
“No. You, perhaps, are the one who had saved him for far too long already. But enough for now, twin of Brannis, the ceremony is beginning.”
Kyrus shook himself from his magical conversation, and reacquainted himself with his sur
roundings. He stepped up to the pyre as he saw the others doing.
“We commit this hero to the fire,” Rashan spoke, his voice carrying through the crowd as if he personally stood next to each man, woman, and child. Rashan released a tiny lick of flame that sparked a fire in the kindling packed in and around the logs of the piled wood. Juliana, Kyrus, and even Illiardra did likewise, setting flames at points roughly spaced out around Iridan’s pyre.
A small stone slab, inlaid with runes, had been placed in the ground at the head of the pyre. Emperor Sommick walked over, and stood upon it. When he spoke, his voice was amplified throughout the estate grounds.
“We gather this night to honor Iridan Solaran, Warlock of the Kadrin Empire. Though he never spoke his pledge before me, he was pledged to the service of the Kadrin Empire at the time of my coronation, and he will henceforth be considered to be the first warlock of my reign. Though we have not gathered the entire circumstance of his death, we know that he fell in battle, and that his death was bought at the price of many Megrenn lives. I honor him, and wish that I could have had a dozen more like him, that we might never face an enemy willing to contest against us.”
Emperor Sommick left the slab amid a respectful hush, and the soft crackle of four small fires as they began to spread. Rashan took the emperor’s place next on the slab. Though he did not need the magical aid it provided, he allowed it to amplify his voice as well.
“I was gone from the Empire a very long time. In that time, I fathered Iridan, and left him to the fosterage of these kindly folk who have joined us this evening. They raised a fine young man, and sent him to the Imperial Academy when his magical talent became evident. As a child of an unknown bloodline, he fought for everything he got, earning his way to the top of his class. Upon my return to Kadrin, I sought to mold that boy into my own image. I saw the potential of a warlock within him, and indeed he became a warlock. But tonight I beg forgiveness for not doing enough to prepare him, for allowing him to go off alone when he might have been better served by more training. Twice before, in winters long past, I have said good-bye to sons who failed to walk the path I blazed for them. I find my curse in the repetition of mistakes I knew better than to make. I was blinded by the potential I saw, the visions of glory, of the legacy I would be able to pass on. Now I consign those dreams to ash.”
To oblivion with you, demon, this is your fault.
Taking small steps, seeming unsure of her balance, Juliana took her turn next upon the speakers’ slab. The magic made clear not only the words she spoke, but the sniffling between words as she struggled to maintain her composure.
“Iridan, I am sorry. We have quarreled since long before we were wed, and the childish torments I once inflicted on you … I never outgrew them in time. You deserved much better than I gave you, and I cannot help wondering how much better your life would have been if not for mine. We would have grown together, in time, but I pushed you away. I made you feel like you needed to prove your worth. It was my fault you went off alone to Munne. It is my fault that you now lie before us, instead of standing alongside us.” Juliana stepped off the slab just before she burst into tears.
Standing in the front row of spectators, just behind the halberds of the guards, Axterion stood with his hand on Danilaesis’s shoulder for support. He leaned down, close to the boy’s ear, and whispered, “Do you still want to be a warlock now? This is what happens to all of them, eventually.”
Danil stared at the spreading fires but did not answer.
Illiardra took an unanticipated turn upon the slab herself, though only metaphorically. She chose to float above it, letting the crowd see her clearly as she threw back the hood of her cloak. She had done nothing to hide her inhuman appearance. Her thin, delicate horns framed her face, and her long ears poked from beneath her hair. Her voice echoed with her own magic as she shunned the stone runes.
“Iridan Solaran was born of my body, but was Rashan Solaran reborn. Every bit of power and potential that a young Rashan possessed, so too did Iridan. Raised with no knowledge of his lineage, Iridan developed kindness, compassion, and humility. This gave me hope that his father might learn these traits himself. Instead, within little more than a season of their meeting, Rashan destroyed Iridan, shattering a blade he believed himself to be tempering. Arrogance, wantonness, cruelty, a quickness to violence—all lurked beneath, exposed as the rest was stripped away. Today I mourn the death of everything that was good within Rashan Solaran.”
With no further explanation, Illiardra was gone. Even paying attention that time, Kyrus could not see the magic she used.
Kyrus watched the flames for a moment, smelling the wood smoke, noting the subtle exchange of the fading twilight for the growing firelight. He made his way over, and took his turn upon the runed slab.
“The day I met Iridan, we were eight summers old, and at the Academy together. He was shy and quiet, peasant born and wary of all the highborn children about. I spent much of the winters that followed protecting him, helping him, watching over him, as would an older brother, though he was older than I by a turn of the moon,” Kyrus said, noticing that his voice was wavering. He was Brannis’s friend, not mine. I barely knew him. Kyrus wiped at his eyes. “We became the best of friends, constant companions. He was the only one from the Academy who did not shun me after I left there.
“Once our paths diverged, he carved a place for himself. He had a true talent for wardkeeping, and a bright future before him in the Circle. I looked on with pride at his accomplishments, knowing that because I had been there when he needed me, he could now stand on his own. He had become the stronger of the two of us. But …” Kyrus found himself needing a pause to collect himself. But I remember everything so clearly. It is as if I was there with them, with Brannis and Iridan as they grew up together. He wiped his eyes dry again on the end of his sleeve. “But he did still need me. I was not there when he died. I could not save him.
“No, instead, all alone in some forsaken corner of a Megrenn-occupied city, Iridan was overcome. Some bastard cut his head off, and no amount of magic is going to undo that.”
The crowd began to grow nervous as the sorcerers present began backing away from the pyre. There was a strong draw in Kyrus’s direction, and the flow of aether was growing in strength.
“Iridan, I am sorry. I would do anything in my power to bring you back to life, but I cannot. All I have to offer is vengeance, and a proper farewell. I will not let this paltry fire be all the tribute you receive. Let the heavens themselves mark your passing!”
The crowd scattered, pushing back to a safer distance as the pyre erupted. A pillar of flame reached up into the night sky. A torrent of aether flooded through Kyrus’s body, purging all the guilt, all the sorrows, all the regrets … at least for a little while. The only thing it failed to burn clean of him was anger.
When the fires subsided several moments later, when the beacon trailed off into the starry sky, and faded away, Kyrus was left staring across the glowing embers of a crater where once a pyre had been. He saw Rashan Solaran, the only one who had remained unmoved, witnessing the awesome display of power in his son’s name.
You are the one who killed him, you bastard! You may as well have wielded the blade yourself!
* * * * * * * *
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About The Author
Born in New Hampshire in 1977, J.S. Morin found himself captivated by the wonders of fantasy novels at a young age. He was introduced to the genre via the works of R.A. Salvatore, Ed Greenwood, and Margaret Weiss and Tracy Hickman. He loved exploring other people’s worlds, from Shadowdale to Hyrule. He also quickly found Dungeons and Dragons to be a creative outlet for stories, characters, and new worlds of his own creation.
His other passion was for building and designing things, and when it came time to choose a career, he went down that road. A Mechanical Engineer by day, he spends his evenings with his wife in their New Hampshire home, enjoying the simplicity of life in a quiet state.
By night he dreams elaborate dreams of visiting fanciful worlds, performing acts of heroism, and solving intriguing puzzles, which inspire him to craft stories that he hopes will help shape the lives of the next generation of fantasy readers. He hopes to avoid finishing growing up.
Table of Contents
duncanlong.com
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 - Priceless
Chapter 2 - Fighting the Tide
Chapter 3 - Plans and Preparations
Chapter 4 - Traderous Intent
Chapter 5 - Sizing Up Foes
Chapter 6 - Unfettered
Chapter 7 - Testing Phase
Chapter 8 - Pursuits
Chapter 9 - Staffing Issues
Chapter 10 - First Strike
Chapter 11 - The First of Springtime
Chapter 12 - Aftermath Examined
