A chorus of agreement rang through the audience. Scilio cursed himself the obvious: these were scholars, not warriors. He glanced at Shiriah with the thought that went unspoken. Where might they obtain even a single blade?
“I can help,” Mehndor called. “I'm a journeyman in the bladesmithing program. I have access to the student foundry. There's a tidy little arsenal stashed there. I can't vouch for all of the swords—they are novice made. I'll pick through for the best of the lot. It will provide us enough steel for willing hands.”
“That will suffice,” Scilio said. “If you require gear, make arrangements with Mehndor Lindt. Please understand this: if you walk with us, you become a Guardian in your own right. With that understood, might I ask for volunteers for this task?”
The entire room rose from their seats as one, without so much as a moment's hesitation.
“Then let us divide into parties, grouped by number for ease of reference. I'd like the Chalice courtesans to remain behind, to keep up the appearance of normalcy at the estate,” Scilio recommended. He set to organization, grouping members by strength of magics. Within the hour, everyone was familiar with the route, the ruse and their roles. When they arrived at the temple, the members would wait in the courtyard to serve as sentries. Upon successful completion of the restoration, His Majesty would return to Chalice House in a bridal skiff that Gavin would have standing by.
It wouldn't be a difficult ploy, and was probably not even necessary. What scared Scilio the most wasn't the quarter-league journey to the temple. It was the prospect of what would happen inside the temple. The prospect of something going wrong. The prospect of losing Vann forever.
-50-
Cutting Together New Purposes from
Scraps and Cast-Asides
No slumber teases my lids to fall, this night before the new dawn. How could I sleep, when Vann's voice is but a day away? Too many anxieties play chase across my mind. I see too many possibilities, too many outcomes in which I remain a Betrayer forever. If we succeed and Vann stands before us again, he need not forgive this pathetic little man. I only hope he can forgive himself for having believed in me at all.
- Excerpt from the transitory journal of Toma Scilio, Guardian Betrayer
From high up, the distant Arshenholm range looked like jagged teeth, as if Aquiline was an island-sized kaiyo and the airship was just a bitty germ moving through its mouth. The view over the bridge deck railing was magnificent, stunning, breathtaking... Kir fumbled through her adjectives to find a worthy word. None of them were adequate. Scilio was much better with description.
Kir had seen this view once before. The last time, she had been standing on the observation deck of the royal airferry, posing reluctantly for Vann's drawing. She had been guarding a lot of precious protectables then—her own heart, a deep well of secrets, Palinora and Vann. She had lost every one of them since.
“It's not lost on me,” Inagor said over the loud rumbling of the engines. He sidled Kir at the railing, sporting his brand new tabard in Kir's colors. It had been thrown together in a dash at the last minute by the quartermaster and was ready just as they had boarded the airship. His Guardian cape was the same color as Malacar's, a deep navy blue that matched the belt and the tabard's trimming. It was a handsome look, all put together.
“What's not?” Kir asked. She glanced askew, raising an eyebrow.
“What happened the last time we shared this view.”
“Oh, right. I was just thinking about it, too,” Kir sighed, rubbing the soulwhisper. “Soreina's not here this time. That's something.”
Inagor nodded distantly. He did not have to mention how heavy the air felt on his own shoulders, or how much the memory had dredged the darkness that tainted his eyes. Kir could have seen it a mile away.
“Humdinger,” she said aloud, before she could stop herself.
“Come again?”
“The view. I couldn't remember the word, but I got it now. It's a humdinger.”
“That it is.” Even though Inagor smiled, it was a halfhearted wisp that didn't succeed in creasing his eyes.
He was good at keeping his stoic mask up, but every now and again, Kir peeked in through the cracks. His demons didn't need speaking on. It would always be a shared load to bear, even if unspoken. They would offer their shoulders to the other when the weight got too heavy. Kir's hand found his vambrace. She let her support show silently as they took in the expanse of mountains on the horizon.
It had been a whirlwind of chaos before they had embarked. There were supplies to load, orders to issue, briefing to go about, blood and kaiyo funk to be scrubbing clean, and the Karmines to address. Kir didn't have much time to allow, but she had made her way around as best she could, giving and accepting warm wishes of parting, mingled with prayers to Eskanna.
Little Erahnie had taken it the hardest, shedding a few tears over sniffles as she hugged Kir's neck. Corban had promised to take Erahnie and Gressie in while Kir was away. It was heartening to know that they would be well looked after. He offered them the empty neighboring hut that he had bought for Copellian and Melia. In his fatherly hands, Kir didn't worry for her sister. She only wished there had been time to tell Erahnie of her true parentage. That would have to wait for another day.
Beyhue remained behind, planning a counteroffensive and healing from his wounds. He was insistent that Ulivall and Ithinar Steel accompany Kir, along with a fresh company made up of both Aquilinian soldiers (outfitted in their new uniforms of silver, blue and burgundy—Kir couldn't refer to them as “greenies” anymore) and Hilian warriors (outfitted in nothing but their pantlings and bare chests). So many bodies were packed below decks, it was amazing that the airship could lift its heavy belly over the parapet, let alone above the clouds!
There were too many heads and not enough bunks to accommodate, so the warriors were trading out sleep in shifts. Kir hadn't had more than a few hours of shut-eye in days. That, coupled with the frantic ride, the kaiyo battle, the Kionfire, and the Prophetic connection with Ashkorai had mightily drained her energies. The fatigue was creeping into her shoulders, stinging her eyes and lending to a mild headache. How could she sleep, when Vann was just over the horizon? She fully expected Malacar to usher her away to the captain's quarters, armed with one of Bertrand's soporific potions. He was just as tired as she was, but he seemed revitalized somehow, too. They were both antsy for the reunion.
Kir sensed Melia before she heard the soft footfalls on the deck behind her. Copellian was supporting his wife under one arm, easing her forward toward the railing. Melia was hunched like an elder, clutching Copellian's tunic in one fist and her middle with the other.
“Are you sure you want to be topside, Mel?”
“I'm feeling a bit better,” Melia managed, though the pallor of her face said otherwise. “It's too crowded belowdecks. Needed some fresh air.”
“Bertrand's potion took the edge off the airsickness,” Copellian explained. “Sort of.”
“I make no guarantees. Not in turbulent currents like this,” Bertrand stated from where he stood, pressed flat against the bridge wheelhouse. Rather than pale like Melia, he wore a putrid shade of green. His arms were spread wide, his hands gripping at whatever nonexistent hold there was on the bulwark. The first few hours in the air, Bertrand had only been able to crawl everywhere on hands and knees. The fact that he was standing upright was a definite improvement.
Bertrand wasn't wrong about the turbulence. All expectations that the Emerald Bounty would ride like an airferry flew overboard the moment they had launched. Airferries were smooth on their upward cable glide, only betraying their motion with the low rumble of the Blazer magic that fed energy through the cables. Airships, it seemed, were destined to be the cantankerous, cheeky cousins, prone to fickle temperament and noisy outburst. It wasn't the delicate noble's ideal method of travel. The windbucket's decks rumbled in pitch with the engine's chuffing mechanisms, and when it took a conniption,
the ship would buck like an ornery nag.
Melia reached out and clutched the railing between Kir and Inagor. “Whew! Made it.”
“This motion sickness is abominable. I should have insisted you stay behind in Hili with Corban,” Kir said apologetically, rubbing Melia's back.
“You'd have had to lock her in the clink,” Copellian huffed. “I tried to make her stay. She's as stubborn as you, Highness.”
“Melia? She's one of the least stubborn people I've ever known,” Kir countered.
“Apparently not,” Copellian muttered. “Or she's been taking lessons from you...”
Melia wagged her finger between Copellian and Kir indignantly. “I'm your wife, and your Second Lady. Two vital jobs and you're both counting on me. How could I dare stay behind?”
Bertrand had inched his way along the path of the railing, taking it in baby steps. He made it to Kir's side, his fingers clutching the rail in a death grip. He refused to look over the edge, keeping his eyes parked on his hand-hold. “I wanted to stay behind. But not without Dailan. I know where I want to be now. Remember, Saiya Kunnai? You said I own my own collar and I can choose my own future. It's beside Dailan. He can't go without me again. I won't let him.”
“You do realize what that means? Dailan's future is onboard the decks of this airship now. You'll have to learn how to walk them without clinging to the rails,” Kir said.
Bertrand nodded flatly, staring at the one he was gripping. He let go and stepped back, knees bent and arms spread wide. He looked like he was trying to maintain his balance on a fallen log. “I will learn. Because I want to go where Dailan goes.”
Without warning, the deck rattled and shuddered. It felt like the keel had dropped out of the ship, even though they had only fallen a few feet in the air. Bertrand's face turned from green to white in a heartbeat. He wrapped himself around the rail, clinging desperately.
Melia's eyes closed as she breathed steadily into Copellian's chest, trying to master her protesting stomach.
“Sorry 'bout that,” Dailan called as he came bounding across the deck from the bridge. “Just a dunt. Mild one, at that. We ain't crashing or nuthin.”
“Dagnabber, you best get this bucking windbucket under control,” Kir scolded, “or we're gonna lose our savant healer to apoplexy. And my Second Lady might paint the deck with her innards.”
Dailan chuckled nervously. “It just does that sometimes. Took me and Emmi a while to get used to it. We kept on thinking we were gonna fall right outta the sky. One of the fits and fusses of windbustin'. C'mon, you can let go now, Bertrand. The ship just had a hiccup, that's all.” Dailan coaxed Bertrand's hands free from their vise-like grip then pushed a seashell into the cleavage of a clenched palm. It worked almost instantly.
As his fingers flicked across the smooth surface of the scallop, Bertrand was able to pull his eyes upward. “I saw the deck. I saw the mountains. And I walked. Now I'm going to go back to my bunk and not see for a while.”
“I'll take her back down, too.” Copellian started toward the ladder, with Melia hanging on his one side, Bertrand clinging to his other. Kir couldn't help grinning at the sight the proud warrior playing nursie.
Dailan parked himself next to Kir. He might have owned the world by the stars in his eyes. “Isn't that Beacon over there?” he asked, pointing to a far off speck over the starboard rail.
“Yeah, I'm letting him stretch his wings. I haven't been able to fly him with all the hard riding and the drencher rains kicking up. He'll come back when I call him.”
“Pretty snazzy. I figure me and Emmi will be getting us a hawk or two for the ship. In case we need to send messages and whatnot. Maybe you can teach me the ropes of hawking.”
“Gevriah, Avalir and Vann can teach us both. I'm just coming into it, my own self,” Kir said.
“I got me all kinds of learning to do now,” Dailan boasted. “Havenlen's a great place to be soaking it all up. It'll probably be me and Emmi's headquarters, since we got it so good at Chalice and there's a hanger for the airship. Can't wait for you to see it all. Master Westerfold's workshop is really something.”
“I'm excited to get there, too. If we can already see the Arshenholm range, we're making good time,” Kir commented.
“Should be seeing the beaches of northern Aquiline by morning,” Dailan said. “White Tower by the following morning.”
“Remarkable,” Inagor breathed. “Traveling by mage cloak or Soreina's transport device is one thing. Since they have limitations, they're not much good to a large unit that needs to move quickly. Having a speedy way to transport supplies, troops, and officers—it could change everything.”
“Yeah...” Dailan bit his lip. He seemed to trip up on something he'd been stewing on.
“Speak up, Dagnabber. What's ruckin' your plunket?” Kir asked.
“I know what this airship means to you, Saiya Kunnai. You got us—you got the Emerald Bounty—for as long as you need, and for whatever you need. It's just... once it's all over, it might be hard to let it go. If we get His Majesty back and whoop Alokien's tail back to his old hole and put the world back in order—”
“I'm not going to commandeer your airship, Dailan. This vessel belongs to Captain Bounty. Don't think I won't be putting some shiny lorans down on duplicating her, mind you—making a whole fleet of them if possible. But she's not mine to take, and I know that full well.”
“Oh, I'm not saying you would,” Dailan said quickly. “I'm just worried that others will. You know... folks like Consul Ferinar might could use their clout in the court to make us turn her over. It would break Emmi's heart and soul to lose this airship, no matter who she'd be losing it to.”
“That won't happen. Not while I'm still kickin'. It's the least I owe the both of you for all you've done, and all I've yet to ask of you. Besides that, the new court's going to be different. I don't claim to know much on rewriting political systems, but with minds like Vann, Scilio, Elder Trenen, Gavin, Dekshar Sehlovah, and all the others that mean to change things, I can guarantee that the world we're making is going to be a better one. Where voices count more than lorans. Where people count more than power.”
Dailan looked appeased. “I figured as much. Just needed to hear it spoke, for my own peace of mind. And for Emmi's. She's put a lotta trust in me. I gotta do right by her.”
“You've grown quite a bit since last year, Dailan,” Inagor offered cordially, putting to words what Kir had been thinking before. “I don't just mean in inches, either.”
Dailan's cheek twitched hesitantly, wanting for a grin but finding it lacking. He hadn't warmed up to Inagor yet, despite all Inagor's efforts to make friendly. Still, his reply was light. “Didn't have much choice, hanging 'round this lot.”
Kir mussed up Dailan's hair affectionately with her splinted hand.
“Bertrand told me what happened,” Dailan said carefully. “Can you still fight with it?”
“Yeah, but this contraption's a hindrance. The broadsword pommel kept hanging up on it during the battle. Now that I've got my shortsword back, it won't matter as much.”
“But if you need to fight with both hands... I mean, Keeper Xavien uses two swords where you only use one.”
Kir shrugged. “I'll make due with what I got.”
Dailan took her hand and examined the splint thoughtfully. “Did you try fixing a weapon to it?”
“I tied my dagger in the palm with cords and bandages. Also smeared the hilt with hajitain blood, it being a decent adhesive when it congeals. Nothing really worked. It needs to be fixed rigid with more than one point of stability. My three-fingered grip is just too weak now to hold anything against the blunt force of an attacking weapon.”
Dailan's braingears were turning. “I'll see what I can come up with. I got lots of tools and doojiggers stashed that Professor Westerfold left lying around. Figured to be prepared in the event of airborne catastrophe. Never know what you'll need in a pinch.”
“Mind if I borrow your dagger for a spell?”
“Have at it.” Kir slipped the Arrelius dagger from its place and handed it over to her beaming clan brother.
“Off you go, then,” Inagor chuckled, pulling a small notebook from inside his tabard.
Dailan saluted and scurried away down the ladder.
“Scilio always stashed his journal behind the front tabard panel. Never knew you to be the bookish sort,” Kir commented.
“It's a work in progress. The quartermaster at Fort Unity supplied it,” Inagor explained, tilting it for her benefit. He thumbed in a few pages, finding the word hajitain in an upper corner. “Congealed blood useful as adhesive, you said?”
His graphite moved quickly across the page. When he was finished, he stuffed the journal back inside his tabard.
“You're writing a book?”
“A resource guide, documenting kaiyo and their characteristics. A compendium, you could call it. The months I spent working Soreina's kaiyo gave me an insight and experience that is rivaled by few others. Methods of successful training, strengths, weaknesses, harvest potential, and so on. I'm not good with sketching. I'll need a Creative to help with the illustrations.”
“Brilliant!” Kir said approvingly. “When you're finished, we'll have it published and distributed to all our troops. Even to towns and civilians. Every weapon in the arsenal.”
“That was my purpose. If the knowledge I pass on will save lives, at least those months in Soreina's employ amounted to something other than evil.”
“I'll be anxious to study on it. Now that they're spilling out into the world, everyone needs to be prepared. I used to think kaiyo-talk was just a load of hooey—fisherman's tales. I mean, I knew they existed and had seen them before, but only lower-classers, usually in traveling circus troupes, then later, in Master Kozias' training grounds. I figured the reports of massive attacks were exaggerations. Had no idea of their numbers, how powerful the higher levels are, or how organized they can be when trained. The malcraven near Beckett was my first taste of the truth. I wish I could laugh at my own skepticism, but it's hard to find humor in the idea of a kaiyo army ready to sweep the isles.”
Bardian's Redemption: Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace (The Guardian Vambrace 4) Page 61
