Ru ignored it all. He was, for lack of a better term, on the scent. Powerful magic were being employed somewhere and he intended to investigate.
The problem was that middling magic was worked all the time in a city the size of Daire, in addition to thousands of instances of minor magic. Tracing the one truly impressive act through the background noise that was Daire's day to day workings was rather like finding a roaring lion in a stadium of a thousand screaming humans. His sense led him west, but he was having difficulty pinpointing it.
The sun grew low in the sky and more and more richly dressed folk passed by on the street; each on their way to Solgrum's ball. Though dedicated to sifting through the mystic static and finding what he sought after, Ru watched them.
Thousands of years didn't change some things. The rich and powerful were still obsessed with peacockery; dressing in their finest to show off to one another. The styles and customs had changed; none of the women wore masks or hoods to hide their eyes during revelry and none of the men wore gloves, but the concept hadn't advanced.
He remembered the gloves. White and stiff to wear, but silken to the touch. He'd worn them with a long, divided coat that slipped over his head and tied at the sides like a tabard. Gloryfall wore a dress of green satin and an onyx mask that covered only her eyes and required the application of some sickly sweet smelling concoction to keep it in place.
One night. That last night, when they danced to celebrate Gand's dream coming one step closer to reality. To the lie they both believed. Equity.
Praetor Joquien had been one of those peacocks; dressed in cloth of gold, his coat open to show that he also had a vest and shirt of the same, and a sash of blood silk from distant lands. The man had smiled at them, called Gloryfall lovely. But he must have known what was in the works; what would happen two days later.
He couldn't have known Ru's response.
The first time his world ended, it had been metaphorical. For the most part.
Later, the world really had ended, though not by his hand as they had all feared. Maybe if it hadn't, mankind would have moved away from such vulgar displays. Maybe the world would have been how Taylin and Kaiel liked to pretend it was.
“Heh.” He interrupted his own thoughts, speaking aloud just to counter them. “Thinking of what could have been is as stupid as thinking that you can improve things. No matter how powerful you are, you can change nothing about universal truths. Thought begets self-preservation, begets self-interest, begets betrayal. As it always has been, as it always will be.”
A few passersby looked at him strangely, but it did the trick of clearing his mind. Besides, there was something interesting going on and he wanted to be privy to it. He rather enjoyed the company of the local wizards; at least those serious about the craft. They argued and compared notes, then argued about the results, exactly as it should be.
Now something large scale was happening. He could feel the energies being moved; ere-a, vox and both sides of anima. Golems required those elements. All types of animated stone or mud did, but there was so much being moved in so many directions, he hoped it would be something more creative or ambitious.
And yet...
More bad memories. The sense of smell triggered memories for some, but hardly ever for him. But the feel of spellcraft; that did the trick. And for this particular combination, the memories dredged up were of wild cackling in the base of his skull; of the hot blood of innocents streaming down his arms, and of the link delivering swift and brutal punishment again and again.
He'd had one hundred and seven masters before Taylin, but her immediate predecessor had been the worst experience of his immortal life. For five thousand years, he soldiered through the orders, abuse and liberties taken by the only people truly dark of heart enough to actually seek out the Rune Breaker. Only once had he wished to die.
And that previous master had help getting to that point.
Ru stopped at an intersection. There was another bard there in the middle of some tale Ru never heard before about Pandemos and Hessa taking mortal form so that they could find each other and fall in love anew. Her voice was too shrill for the work, and it was likely that she knew it because she had a clarinet close at hand to play instead. The passion she put behind the tale explained why she was attempting it at all.
He hadn't stopped for her, but rather for a procession of ceratos crossing ahead of him on the way to the western gate. The animals were as big as the battle spiders and plodded along on four flat feet. Their skin was coarse and gray, sporting stiff hairs like a rhinoceros's, but their mouths were a heavy beak like a turtle's and their thick tails were like no mammal's.
Two of them were Tri-horn ceratos. So named for the three horns on their faces; one short one on their nose, and two sprouting from their brows just above the massive frill that protected their neck. The other was a bone-mask cerato with only the nose horn and a hedge of boney spikes in place of the frill.
All of them carried howdahs loaded with finely dressed revelers, and were draped in fine, thick cloth banners and beautifully wrought champrons that sat upon their faces like iron masks.
Ru noticed both, but did his best to tune them out as he sought the spellcraft that caught his attention. Doubt tugged at him, warning that perhaps he didn't want to find whoever was performing this rite. However slim the chance, it was still possible that the person he was seeking out was someone he wanted no part of.
But then again, if they were, it would give him great pleasure to end their life.
***
The Murderyard was normally defined by the observation deck used by officers of the guard to watch their men train, the various semi-permanent tents along the perimeter for the healers, mess and quartermaster, and the fifty-foot stone seal that commemorated the day the city repelled King Nov himself, as well as the day Nov returned to accept their entry into his kingdom.
For the ball, dozens more tents had been erected, forming a ring several ranks deep. Some were for noble guests to rest between circulating and dancing. Others were for the various entertainers, some of whom were actually paying Solgrum for the chance to present themselves before his guests. Yet more rings were for the merchants who backed the new king, each hoping to make sales and win contracts right there at the party.
Solgrum himself sat upon his traveling throne high on the observation deck. Two armored soldiers, both local women who had supported his coup, stood at attention on either side of the throne while a rank of minotaurs stood in front of the deck; blocking access to the stairs unless given orders to the contrary. A pair of hailene, one was a woman with black hair tied in a braid and carrying a glaive, while the other was Percival Cloudherd. Both perched atop the upright spars of the deck, keeping watch in all directions.
Despite his bluster, Solgrum seemed well aware of how little love his country had for him and reacted accordingly outside the protection of his palace, Taylin observed. She remembered several ship's captains like that; they more or less barricaded themselves on the bridge or in the forecastle, issuing orders via slave while praying the threat of mutiny would soon dissolve like dew before the rising sun. Most of them died in the process, and almost always by the hands of those who guarded them.
Brin's laughter drew her eyes back to present company. Rai and Bromun had disappeared from their company early. Grandmother had standing orders for all of the clan members who attended the ball to stock up on any food or drink that would keep when the caravan left. She still took personal offense at Solgrum's earlier treatment, but this had nothing to do with spite and everything to do with nir-lumos pragmatism.
Layaka wasn't part of the clan and wasn't a guest, so that left Taylin with Brin and Kaiel. Which essentially left her alone.
Brin was dressed in a green and white dress of the traditional style, with a white coat hanging from her shoulders. Her hair was done up with five complex braids that crossed and looped over one another in an intricate pattern. She'd told Taylin and Rai that it
cost her two fullmarks and then spent the next ten minutes explaining to them that yes, the hair was hers, but the money was for the work done to make it so beautiful.
Brin’s arm was linked with Kaiel's. The chronicler looked every bit the full-fledged loreman; resplendent in black trousers and shirt with gold buttons, fittings, and thin stripes at the seams. His vest was dark blue with obsidian toggles and his pocket watch, itself a symbol of wealth and progressive thinking, hung from the breast pocket by a gold chain. All of it was topped off by a midnight blue mantle with wide shoulders flanked by gold stripes and an embroidered pattern featuring the common shorthand symbol of the magic pattern crea on the back.
He was relating a story from the Bardic College to Brin and was too absorbed by her presence to pause and explain some of the more modern concepts to Taylin, so she stopped listening.
She wasn't about to try and mingle with any of the invited guests, and it was hard to spot any of the other members of the Winter Willow among them, so she tried to enjoy the music instead. Like literature, she was trying to develop a taste in other arts. A few days in the Golden Quarter taught her that paintings were something that interested her. Music, however, was something that did not.
Maybe it was a lifetime of war drums and heralding horns. Maybe it was a childhood lived to the rhythm of the pickaxe, but where it moved everyone else—including Brin and Kaiel who had wandered from her side so they could dance—it did rather little for her.
“Drink, m'lady?”
She started at the voice and turned to see a man—a half elf from the look of his eyes and ears—standing beside her with a silver tray upon which sat a number of glass and crystal bottles. Hesitantly, she nodded. “Something not too strong.” As used as she was to the beer given to the slaves with their slop, she was worried about what would happen if she became truly drunk, and she didn't fully trust the vast array of methods for attaining drunkenness available to her.
The servant nodded. She noticed that he wore an emerald pin in the likeness of a hare on his breast. “I recommend the Sweetwater Spirits from Chordin then, m'lady.”
Taylin didn't like the 'm'lady' one bit; it sounded too much like Ru's 'Miss Taylin' to her ears, but she understood why he had to and that this man at least wasn't a slave. “Yes, I'll have that please.” It was Kaiel's drink of choice and one of the rules for the path of the loreman was never to get so drunk that one lost control, so it must be safe.
With a nod, the servant picked up one of the bottles; blown red glass with a paper label depicting a river at sunset. He muttered something and tipped the bottle over an empty part of the tray. Suddenly, Taylin had a theory about what his pin meant. As the clear liquid flowed, a perfectly clear glass cup formed around it, coming into being just fast enough to keep any of the drink from spilling.
When he'd poured a measure, he replaced the bottle on the tray and offered her the glass with a practiced and professional smile. “My conjurings only last about two hours, m'lady. Then the glass will be gone.” With that, he turned and found someone else to offer his wares to. Solgrum must have paid him well for him not to at least hint at her for a gratuity.
She sipped the wine experimentally. Sweetwater Spirits was an apt name; it tasted like honey without being cloying or sticky. It would have been impossible to tell that it had any alcohol at all if not for the smell that tingled in her nose.
It was a diplomat's drink, meant for those who needed to keep a clear head at all times, especially in long meetings in hot climates. For reasons Taylin couldn't fathom, simply drinking clean water was looked upon as low or childish.
In one of the open spaces informally designated for dancing, she caught a glimpse of Kaiel and Brin. Taylin couldn't name the dance they were doing, or any dance for that matter, but as she watched, Brin rested her cheek against Kaiel's extended upper arm and slowly drew away from him until her face ended up caressed by his hand.
Something like ice hit her stomach just watching that kind of soft and innocent touch. Bad memories of things seen through the slats of isolation pens, and the shrieks of the unwilling as powerful magic was forced on them to turn them into something not themselves.
Taylin turned away. She couldn't watch them anymore, not without being sick. And yet something wanted to watch; watch and empathize. As sick as the sight made her, she knew that what was done to the slaves on the ships wasn't the norm. Something wanted to know what the norm was.
Chasing it away was a matter of draining the glass and motioning to another passing steward. This time she took Cylla wine from Rizen; the fermented juice of the wheyweed, highly prized and highly priced for its flavor. Stronger than Sweetwater, she hoped it would be dulling, and to an extent, it was.
She skulked along the edge of the party, perusing the entertainment until she found a marionette play about how Nov I finally won Daire. There was a dragon in it, represented by two green fans attached to a glowing emerald that animated them to fly around at the direction of the puppeteers.
The show and the wine let her mind drift a while, but it also let that specter of thought creep up on her again. It was like when she found herself powered by internal rage in battle, only this wasn't rage. It was something like it, but different in every way. It was warm instead of hot, yielding instead of steely, and instead of focusing her thoughts, it diffused them.
It made her miss Motsey and Rale. She promised herself to buy the toy version of the 'dragon' the entire puppet show was geared toward selling. And it made her miss her talks with Brin and Kaiel, Raiteria and Signateria and her sparring with Issacor.
Part of her wished he'd taken her invitation, even if Brin was the one that bullied her into extending it.
The fragment of her mind that she currently dwelt on was making her even wish Ru had acted on his usual contrary inclinations and came in spite of not being invited. At least then she wouldn't be navigating the place alone.
Minutes later, she wished she hadn't thought that, as a dagger of surprise and unmitigated violent intent stabbed into her mind from the link hard enough to make her drop her spellcrafted glass.
Chapter 11 – Old Soldier
Issacor rested Faith-Be-Forgiven on one shoulder, leaning slightly against the weight of the huge blade in its heavy sheath. His armor was built to help him carry that weight in just such a way. And, just as a Blade Disciple should never be without his sword, he was also rarely without his armor.
Not all Seven Virtues Swords were as unnaturally massive as Faith-Be-Forgiven. It had been forged specially for its original owner, a minotaur, and had been passed down through three other disciples before it came to Issacor, who trained for three years in the lone temple to the Mother of Blades to wield it.
The Tresholmi elves he was just returning from meeting hadn't believed he could wield it and demanded a demonstration. Just watching him perform a few simple katas inspired them to add another fat handful of the strangely uniform gemstones Vini Tresholm used for currency to their offer. In the end, they were rejected.
Blade Disciples sold their swords as part of their faith. But one didn't hire a follower of the Mother of Blades, they petitioned him. The elves had been found wanting; their cause of making war against a neighboring elfhame over water rights didn't pass muster with Issacor, so they would have to do without his skill.
A pity. He'd been hoping there was a deeper philosophical or historical story behind their war effort. There wasn't. They simply wanted the spring to keep their neighbors from becoming 'too powerful' as they embraced the new advances in certain mystic sciences based around akua. Jealousy and politicking didn't interest him and hardly felt worthy of his attentions. So, ignoring his uncomfortably light coin pouch, he turned them away.
The meeting ended earlier than he'd expected. The sun was still casting a burning line across the horizon and only the red moon, Mayana, lit the sky above. Noticing this, he headed out of the eastern gate toward the halfling caravan. He hadn't inquired as to when Solgrum's ball
was to begin, but with luck, he might still steal some time to speak with Taylin.
Very few were interested in the so called Small Gods like the Mother of Blades and even fewer could ask tough and engaging questions about the faith. Taylin could and did and that endeared her to him, as did the many other conversations they often engaged in before and after sparring. In recent days, he'd come to crave those discussions and now was intensely eager for another before she left for the Murderyard.
He nodded to the nir-lumos sentries who watched for intruders coming from the city. The halflings all knew him by sight now, and though he wasn't family, he was enough of a friend that he wasn't challenged.
The encampment was far more quiet than he ever remembered it; so many had taken Solgrum's invitation if only for the purpose of thoroughly abusing it, or were just using the excuse to go into town. There were still several large fires, but there were more wolves around them than halflings. Most of those left behind were the elderly and the children. Even though the place was markedly more quiet, it was still alive with voices.
Issacor nodded in passing, but directed himself toward Taylin's wagon. On his way, a muffled noise caught his attention. It was a small sound, one he might have missed if not for years spent traveling and training. There were plenty of predators, both bestial and humanoid that attacked from ambush. The little noises were the ones that saved lives.
This little noise sounded like a whimper. Not the whine of an animal, but of a person in pain. Instinct put his hand on the hilt of his weapon as he slowly turned toward its source.
It was coming from the wagon he recognized as belonging to Raiteria and Bromun. In the strange light that came from the setting sun mixing with Mayana's red glare, something seemed off. Gruwluff lay on his side, asleep in front of the wagon. Even with his limited time spent among the nir-lumos, he knew the wolves they kept to be better trained than to lounge about where someone could trip on them like a common lap-bear. They slept under the wagons or near to cook fires, never in front of doors as Gruwluff was doing.
Lighter Days, Darker Nights (Rune Breaker) Page 14
