Bardian's Redemption: Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace (The Guardian Vambrace 4)

by H. Jane Harrington

  “These chambers were carefully concealed to prevent the Keepers from finding them,” Shiriah continued. “I had not been able to access them since Cressiel disappeared because both parts of the key were required for entry. That's why they were kept separate and distinct. Even if the Keepers knew where to look, they would never get in.”

  Dailan was examining a pile of gears and wheels that were laid out on a work table. His hands were clutched behind his back in an attempt to forestall the snatching of valuables, as they were impelled to do. His head popped up in suspicion. “But Magister, if it's so secret, why are you showing us? I mean, not to sound ungrateful or nothing, but you just met us. How do you know we won't run off and sell you out the minute we get clear?”

  Shiriah's eyes creased in humor through her gentle smile. “Because Cressiel believed wholeheartedly in His Majesty. He believed that Vannisarian would be the bringer of the chaos that would change our world. As do I. As His Majesty's closest confidants and protectors, you are working toward the same goal that we cherish. And I need your help. We must rebuild the Underground. With His Majesty and Hili as our allies, we can emerge from the shadows and become the force that Cressiel envisioned. We cannot do it as we are now. This room should not remain entombed as a shrine to Cressiel. He would want others to pick up the tool where he dropped it, and to carry on. It's the only way his life and legacy will have meaning.”

  “A year ago, I was escorting His Majesty through the streets of Arjo,” Scilio said. “A steam-powered wagon with a loud, chuffing engine, puffed its way by. I've never seen Vann so enthralled. His face was painted in rapture that I have only ever seen when he is on the hunt, or in the arms of Her Affianced Highness. He has long wanted a glimpse into the world of mechanology that was denied him in the company of Empyrean nobility. He would topple the hierarchy and abolish the collar. For what the Underground stands for, and for the expansion of enlightenment that mechanology brings, I know he will stand beside you, Magister Kehlamani. I speak on Vannisarian's behalf. As Hili is our ally and Her Highness' homeland, I will be so bold as to speak for Hili, as well. We stand with the Underground.”

  “Equalizing the lower classes will have grave consequence in the court, but Vann already knew that. We talked of it often as we were drafting the Dimishuan Reformations,” Gavin put in. “There's a tenuous line to walk when balancing between support of the court and support of the people. We'll have to help Vann find a way to walk it without tipping.”

  Dailan was examining a bulky contraption with a hollow iron protrusion off its bow. The device was not complete, its innards being scattered across the table in disarray. The boy rummaged through the pieces and began fitting particular ones together, as though they were parts of a puzzle. Scilio watched with a keen eye. Dailan seemed to understand the parts and their functions despite their novelty. A final piece clipped perfectly into a groove as the corner of Dailan's mouth tugged upward in approval and self-satisfaction.

  “That should do it,” he muttered to himself.

  “That should do what, pray-tell?” Scilio chanced.

  “Dunno. Something,” Dailan shrugged. He turned the contraption over in his hands. His finger flipped a side switch. Without warning, the tube barked a puff of smoke and a small jagged projectile sped forth. It ricocheted a few times around the room, bouncing off piping and knocking containers from their shelves. Everyone dove for cover, though Scilio did not figure the tables to be adequate shields. The object smashed into a glass jar filled with tiny metal rings, and it came to rest among the scattered detritus.

  “Whoa! What did I do?” Dailan breathed, trying to cover the embarrassment.

  “I should have warned you,” Shiriah scolded, though it sounded more like she were reprimanding herself. “Some of the devices in this room are meant to be weapons. Please take care when examining them.”

  “Weapons? What was Professor Westerfold planning to do? Attack the world?” Emmi's words were much more bitter than her face implied. She hauled herself into a thin, armless chair that rotated on a swivel.

  “Not exactly,” Shiriah said. “He wanted to give those without magic a means to defend themselves, or to force change, if need be. He never really finished any of them to his satisfaction. There was always room for improvement in his mind. They are archetypes, for which the better models would be patterned.”

  “Most of the greatest discoveries and inventions of the world were only fashioned because of their need during time of war,” Grydon explained to Emmi. “Even Healing magics and methods have warfare to thank for their development. Such is the nature of life, I'm afraid.”

  “I am seeing the larger picture hinted here,” Scilio said aloud. “With tools that run on a power of their own, perhaps the need for a slave hold is diminished. Mechanology may bring about an end to the reliance on collar labor. Easier for the nobility to open a collar when there is no need of the collar itself.”

  “Exactly. Mechanology advancement will lead to abolition. It is one desirable outcome of the larger goal. The movement toward a collar-free kingdom is what the Underground is known for. The means to achieving that future lies in the dissolution of the hierarchy. The class system collars us all. Through education and empowerment, we can raise those with lesser and weaker magics to equal status, through strengths of their own. Promotion of mechanology is the key to achieving that goal. That, Guardian Scilio, is what we are about. We mean to balance the world.”

  “Such a grand vision for a grander world...” Scilio said pensively. He had never really grasped the far-reaching scale of what mechanology would mean until now. It wasn't about weakening those of the upper classes, those maintaining their status and power with their inherently strong magics. It was about strengthening everyone else.

  “I have something else to share,” Shiriah said. “This chamber represents Cressiel's work, but all his discoveries culminate in what you are about to see. What lies in the next chamber is the sum of Cressiel's mechanology. I beg your secrecy in this matter. Not even the core members were ever allowed access.”

  “Something grander than all this?”

  “Perhaps the grandest thing any of us will ever have privilege to know.”

  Shiriah led them through the workshop into an alcove. Another heavily Barriered door, three men high, disrupted the entire far wall. The Defensive magics there were so strong, Scilio could feel their power humming as he approached behind Shiriah. The Magister pressed her thumb against a thin tack that jutted from the wall. She coaxed a droplet of blood forth and pressed it against the seal to release the blood bonded lock layer, which hissed in acceptance. She dismissed the Barrier and used the specialized key that fit perfectly in a matching indentation. It took several moments of clicking and clanging before the door finally opened.

  “The lock mechanism was one Cressiel designed himself,” Shiriah explained. “The sound you hear is the gears on the other side of the door rotating to shift aside the lock bars.”

  “This chamber was important,” Scilio noted, “to have such an elaborate locking system coupled with strong Defensives.”

  “It houses Cressiel's pride and joy.” Shiriah pushed the door open. She lit another chamber lamp that sparked lumanere veins embedded in the walls. Soft light filled the room with a dim ethereal glow, punctuated by the Inferno lamps that dotted the perimeter.

  If Scilio had believed the former to be a sea of a room, this chamber was positively an ocean. It was the largest open room Scilio had ever seen, and further remarkable by the fact that it required no pillars or supports to hold up the ceiling. They were deep underground, but the ceiling was so high, it must certainly have brushed the streets of White Tower. The walls were not plastered or bricked, but rocky like those of a cave. It was much more a cavern than a chamber, in fact. Stacks of plank wood, barrels, crates and stray bundles of cording were scattered throughout. Dozens of ropes and nets dangled from pulleys lodged in the ceiling and walls.

 
In the center, an imposing ship was nestled into a supportive beam network. Plank ramps and haphazard scaffolding clung precariously to the hull, secured at the joints with shoddy knots. She was outfitted with gunports like a proper seagoing warship, but even with Scilio's flimsy knowledge of sailing, he knew this vessel was unlike anything on the high seas of modern Septauria. Six iron-jointed legs buttressed the oversized mass, an apparent necessity of land-docking. They seemed to retract into the hull when not in use. The three masts were nothing like any Scilio had seen before. They were thin and oddly shaped, bending inward and backward. The sails that covered them seemed small compared to the relative size of the ship. The stern looked more like a bird's tail, with tiller sails that could be moved in various directions for stability and steering. Two odd, cumbersome mechanisms were set back on either side of the lower hull, where an airferry's viewing decks would be, but their purpose was not obvious to Scilio's untrained eye. The ship looked very much like a cross between an airferry and a clipper.

  “Professor Westerfold was a ship builder?” Dailan asked.

  “As was his father,” Shiriah confirmed. “When Cressiel attended White Tower as a mechanology student, he was already an expert shipwright from his apprenticeship in his father's dockyard. It was during his university years that there was a crackdown on mechanology. The shipwright program had been part of the Mechanology department, and it was dropped around that time. There are many other academies that specialize in shipbuilding, so the university couldn't see continuing the program without the Mechanology professors to oversee it. This particular cavern belonged to the shipwright program until its abandonment, but Cressiel continued his work here, even after the chamber was sealed and forgotten. He chose not to live the highborn life of nobility. Instead, he dedicated his family's fortune to his work here. He didn't even maintain his household—he relinquished his title and sold his estate to fund his research.”

  “Professor Westerfold certainly enjoyed toying with standards. This vessel is the strangest galleon I have ever seen,” Grydon said.

  “Perhaps because she's not a galleon,” Shiriah said. “She is meant for the skies, not the seas.”

  “It's an airferry?” Dailan piped. “Then where's its hangy-boxy thing? The one that connects it to the cable overhead?”

  “There is no need. She is an airship. She generates her own power through the steam in her twin engines.”

  If only Scilio could have captured the chorus of awe in song. He was not the only one to recognize the magnitude of such an invention. Ships were limited by their seas, winds and harbors. Airferries were limited by their cables and Blazer magic. Bound by no limitations, such a versatile vessel in droves would be a force in the world. One might even take High Empyrea with such an armada! It was said that the ancients had been masters of the skies. Such was a history that had dissolved to legend and bardsong, and some believed to be mere myth.

  “Cressiel wanted to take her up, but he was not ready to reveal her. Once airborne, the secret would be out and he wanted to save it, to present his masterpiece to Queen Palinora and Prince Vannisarian when he brought them to White Tower. I think he had a grand spectacle planned. He decided against taking her to Hili on his journey, for fear the Hilians or the army might see her as an invading force and attempt to shoot her down,” Shiriah explained.

  “Is she airworthy?” Gavin asked.

  “Quite. She may appear rough around the edges, but Cressiel was confident in her. She withstood her test flights around the cavern. There were several cosmetic things Cressiel wanted to work on but there was only so much he could do in the daily time allotted to one man. He claimed she is twice as fast as an airferry. The calculations suggested that she can travel from the northern tip of Havenlen to the southern tip of Arcadia in five days.”

  Dailan blinked in amazement. “You'd be like a bird! Can we see the inside?”

  Shiriah led them up a gang plank that shimmied and bounced under foot. Emmi squirmed off Dailan's back, hopping her way along. Belowdecks looked much like any other ship, with wood decking and bulkheads. Free of his burden, Dailan raced through the passages like a child freshly unleashed in a confectioner's shop. Emmi followed as close behind as she could manage on one foot, matching his enthusiasm. Grydon and Gavin disappeared into the galley for their own exploration.

  “This could be the ship of a sky pirate, Bahnli!” Emmi exclaimed. “I want one of my own!”

  Shiriah chuckled indulgently at her ward's imagination. Emmi ducked into a cabin down the passage to explore behind Dailan.

  “This looks like the Captain's quarters,” Emmi called.

  Scilio trailed the two younglings into the cabin. It had been a bedchamber, sparse of possession. The over-sized bed hung from thick chains, allowing it to swing gently in turbulence. It was made, but the pillow looked dingy with the dust of abandonment. A few articles of clothing hung on their lonely hooks. An array of open books were scattered on the floors. They had all been heavily annotated with hurried graphite script and sketched diagrams along their margins. A large captain's desk disrupted much of the room. Some scattered mechanical plans and drafts played chaos across the desk, along with an assortments of books, maps, and a double capture frame.

  “This will be my cabin since I'm the Captain,” Emmi proclaimed playfully. She plopped into the chair and propped her feet on the desk. Leaning back like she owned the world, she laced her fingers behind her head. “Oh, cabin boy? Scrub the decks and beat this room out. It's dusty beyond measure.”

  Dailan snorted. “Cabin boy? What happened to First Mate?”

  “You have to work your way up in the world,” Emmi teased.

  “Prince is higher rank than Captain any day, so I use my Princely authority to override yours. Mop your own decks with that moppy head of yours,” Dailan shot back, teasing his hands through Emmi's wavy hair. There was no resentment in the tone; the boy was finding good company in his new headstrong friend.

  Emmi cackled and batted his hands away, then snatched his wrist firmly. “The cabin boy obviously doesn't understand how seniority works onboard a pirate ship. I'll have to teach him by way of keelhaul.” Bouncing awkwardly, she tried to drag Dailan toward the door in a spirited attempt to playact the punishment. Dailan shifted inward and rammed his shoulder against her middle, hauling her up as one slings a sack of potatoes for the carry. Emmi laughed and kicked her legs. It had been so long since Dailan had been able to truly rollick, and the cheerful play lightened Scilio's heart a degree.

  In the process of their cavorting, the frame on the edge of Westerfold's desk was bumped and went clattering to the deck.

  “Wasn't me,” Dailan proclaimed quickly, dropping Emmi to her feet. He knelt and plucked the frame up, inspecting it for any damage.

  “Me neither,” Emmi countered.

  “Actually, I think it is you,” Dailan commented. The suspicion in his voice chimed as it cracked.

  “Nope, nope. It was your elbow—” Emmi claimed, but Dailan interrupted.

  “No, I don't mean what knocked it over. I mean the capture, Emmi. Look. That's you, ain't it? You were kinda cute as a nipper.”

  Dailan shoved the frame in her face. As Emmi studied it, the lively energy in her drained to something darker and borne of confusion.

  “How did this get here? Bahnli? I don't understand.”

  The left capture in the frame depicted a much younger Shiriah, a rosy-cheeked teenager in the familiar robes of White Tower University. Her hair was strawberry blonde in the capture, a vast difference from the rich ebony it was now. She was wrapped affectionately around the back of a scholarly, ponytailed young nobleman who could only be Westerfold.

  The capture on the right was that of a young girl, perhaps five-years-old. Tiny chin tucked against her chest, her large green eyes twinkled mischievously over a lopsided grin. The angle of her eyes told of some impish playfulness she had recently undertaken. Two ponytails of wild red hair poke
d from the sides of her head. The child held a music box tightly in one hand.

  Shiriah's eyes closed and she inhaled deeply. Courage was solidified in that one motion, and she nodded the assurance to herself that some manner of enlightenment was past its due. “This cabin was Cressiel's home, Senlih.”

  “I'm not so dull that I couldn't figure that out on my own,” Emmi retorted. “Why would Professor Westerfold have a picture of me in his private quarters? You may have been all about him, but I barely knew the man.”

  “He knew you,” Shiriah said bittersweetly. “You remember how busy he was, Emerald. His daytime hours were given to his professorship at the university. The rest of his time was spent down here, engrossed in his research and the Underground. Cressiel wanted to share time with you, he truly did. He certainly loved you, but his secret work was a passion that required his full attention. And, it was simply too dangerous to acknowledge you as his own...”

  Shiriah left the statement hang, perhaps waiting for the light of comprehension to click in Emmi's head. The reality registered in the girl's eyes, but the acceptance did not follow.

  “What are you saying, Bahnli?”

  “I think you already know. It was for your protection, sweet Emerald. Cressiel watched you grow into a beautiful young woman, from the safety his distance brought you both. He was so proud of you, even though he couldn't express it openly. If the Keepers ever discovered him, you would have been in danger, used against him, or even tortured for information. Hiding you in plain sight was the only thing we could do to protect your identity. You could not betray what you did not know.”

  Emmi's eyes glazed in the wash of heartache and betrayal. “How can I be Professor Westerfold's daughter? Cappah is my father. It's Cappah!”

  Shiriah moved in to sooth the rising emotions that were about to boil over. “Captain Bounty is one of our annual clients, Senlih. He makes port once a year and brings us supplies and information when he stops here, but he's merely another traveling merchant. You've always been so enamored of his charm since you were a toddler, and he just adored you. He used to tell stories, adventures that had you so captivated, you began to internalize them. I think part of Captain Bounty has always wished you were his true daughter. Because you are a bit like him, with your red hair and high spirit, he thinks of you as the child he never had. That's why he brings you a gift every year. You seem to fill a hole in his lonely life, as he did for you. We never countered it because it seemed to serve a purpose, not only for your entertainment, but for your protection.”