Artesans of Albia

by Cas Peace

  She frowned. She had hit an open wound. This was the matter behind his discomfort. “Who told you that?”

  “Anjer.”

  “Anjer told you? What reason did he give?”

  Vanyr’s eyes were cold. “He said you didn’t want anyone to contribute who was not completely willing.”

  “And were you willing?”

  His head jerked up. “Of course I was! Like you said, I thought we had made our peace and put the enmity aside. Then you told him you didn’t want me involved. Why did you do that?”

  She spoke firmly, holding his gaze. “I did no such thing.” Here was the reason for his doubt, she thought. She was surprised he had befriended her at all with this hanging over them. “I did ask his Majesty to make sure everyone involved was willing, but I did not ask Anjer to preclude anyone who wanted to participate. When will that man stop trying to protect me?”

  Vanyr stared at her, clearly unsure what to believe.

  “I would never have refused you, Torman,” she said, her tone reflecting her sincerity. “I regret that you received that impression.”

  He averted his gaze and shook his head. “Maybe I just convinced myself Anjer was blaming you. Maybe it was all part of his punishment for what I did to you that day.” He stared into the fire, his face flushed. “I deeply regret that now.”

  She waved it away. “I have forgotten it, it is not important.” A mischievous thought occurred to her and she eyed him. “Although … there is a way you could atone for it, should you feel the need.”

  He looked at her sidelong. “Oh? And what would that be?”

  “How steady is your hand with a small, sharp knife?”

  He had no real choice. The pirates grinned, but turned their heads at Sullyan’s pointed glare. Carefully, she shed her cloak, jacket, and shirt before the fire. Vanyr unbound the wrappings holding her left arm to her body, and then helped pull up her chemise, exposing the line of neat sutures. He sat cross-legged beside her, valiantly trying not to let his eyes stray from the stitches he was slitting. Sullyan smiled when she realized his trouble.

  “Torman, my whole life has been lived among men. Your regard does not bother me.”

  He refused to meet her gaze. “That’s as may be. It’s not necessarily your feelings I’m thinking about.”

  Her brows shot up and her grin broadened. “Commander Vanyr, you amaze me at every turn!” She laughed, making him smile. “Do you not have a wife, then?” she asked.

  His smile disappeared. “No.” His terse tone warned her to pry no further.

  When he was done, he helped her back into her chemise, clicking his tongue in dismay at the scars on her back made by Rykan’s whip. He began to re-bind her left arm across her body, but stopped when he saw the pain in her eyes. “Do you need help with that? I may be only a Journeyman, but I do have strength. You need all yours at present.”

  Gratefully, she smiled. “It would be a relief.”

  He cast her cloak over her shoulders to keep her warm while they worked, then kneeled by her side, carefully unwrapping the bindings on her wrist. The pain was intense and her pupils dilated widely as she tried to block it. Beneath the wrappings, the skin was dark with bruising, but whole. The bones had splintered within the flesh rather than breaking through. Sullyan laid the arm across her lap and, ignoring the flesh of the hand for the moment, reached out to link with Vanyr. She said nothing, but what she saw within him surprised her.

  They worked for some time, Vanyr allowing Sullyan to use his strength as she would. When she was done, the arm was throbbing anew but the bones were very much stronger. He lent her a little more strength to numb the pain before strapping the arm once more.

  She was loath to expose the hand. It had been a mess the last time she had seen it, and she wasn’t sure she had the nerve to look at it now. If it was to heal at all, though, she couldn’t neglect it. Taking a deep breath, as much to brace against shock as pain, she let Vanyr unbind it.

  It was as bad as she feared. Vanyr’s face turned pale at the sight of it and Sullyan herself felt sick. Nevertheless, she schooled herself to deal with it, and once she was done, there was just the tiniest hint of healthy pink skin beneath the blackened scabs. Vanyr applied a fresh dressing and then strapped the entire arm across her body again. He helped her back into her shirt and jacket before replacing the cloak over her shoulders.

  She felt drained, but smiled up at him in grateful thanks. “So, Torman, when will the Hierarch perform your confirmation?”

  Arrested in the act of sitting down, he stared at her. “What?”

  “Surely you know you are ready to become Adept?”

  His jaw dropped. “Ready to …? Are you serious?”

  “Did you not know? Do you not take note of your own status? Or maybe you do not wish to advance?”

  “Of course I do! But lately, what with the threat of war and all our preparations, I haven’t given it a thought. Anjer usually coaches us, but he’s been busy, too.” A sudden thought struck him. “You’re a Master, Brynne, could you …?” He stopped, took a breath. “Would you be willing …?”

  She dropped her eyes, sighing with genuine regret. “I ask your pardon, Torman. It is not my place. Not only is the Hierarch a level above me, he is also your ruler. We both owe him allegiance as Artesans. It is his duty. I cannot usurp his place.”

  Vanyr’s disappointment showed. “I think you’ll find you’re his equal. I could feel it through our link just now.”

  She kept her voice firm but gentle. “Even if that were true, you are still his subject. You must speak to him on your return.”

  With that, he had to be content.

  + + + + +

  Ky-shan’s men prepared the evening meal, and then they all gathered companionably around the fire, watches set in case there were stragglers from Rykan’s forces still around. As they settled with their food, the talk turned to a discussion over who would take control of Kymer and what Sonten’s future might hold.

  Vanyr’s voice conveyed his disdain. “Sonten’s always been ambitious, and he doesn’t care who he tramples on to gain what he wants.” He scooped up the last of his meat with a lump of bread. “His father was a noble, but Sonten’s no Artesan, so he’s had to fight to maintain his position. I’ve heard stories concerning his callousness, and he’s made many enemies among his peers. He even managed to upset Lord Corbyn, one of Tikhal’s nobles, a while ago. The man was angling for his own son to be declared Rykan’s Heir, and he might have succeeded had Sonten not squeezed him out. Corbyn was livid and put the Lord of the North under severe pressure to exact revenge. In the end, Tikhal managed to convince Corbyn to drop it, but resentment like that is never forgotten. Sonten won’t care. He’s a conscienceless bastard, and he’ll survive Rykan’s demise. He might even welcome it. It isn’t the first time he’s had to change his plans.”

  “Why’s that?” mumbled Ky-shan through a mouthful of food. He was losing his animosity for Vanyr in the light of Sullyan’s trust.

  The Commander took a gulp of fellan laced with brine rum. The pirates seemed to have an inexhaustible supply and they distributed it with liberal benevolence. Sullyan, who was feeling drowsy and mellow due to the liquor in her own fellan, was sitting comfortably with her back to a tree, rubbing shoulders with Jay’el. The men’s low voices washed over her.

  Warming to his tale, Vanyr went on. “As I said, Sonten doesn’t have the Artesan gift, and this has plagued him all his life. His father, who was gifted, cast him off because of it. He went mad and eventually died a broken man. He never formally disinherited his son, though, so Sonten took over the province on his father’s death. By this time, Durkos was badly in need of funds. Sonten’s own marriage—which wasn’t prestigious, for what lord wants his daughter to marry a powerless noble?—brought little in the way of wealth and nothing in the way of sons. Ironic, really, that Sonten’s wife should prove as barren in her way as Sonten was in his.”

  Her eyes closed, Sullyan smiled at
Vanyr’s malevolent satisfaction.

  “Sonten embarked on some very underhanded dealings in order to acquire capital. He married his sister off to a wealthy noble, but the man abused her dreadfully and she died of it. The poor woman had, however, managed to produce a son, and the child turned out to be gifted. Sonten, caring family man that he is, murdered the boy’s father and took over his lands, holding them ‘in trust’ for his nephew. The boy, so I heard, had great potential as an Artesan, and under his uncle’s devoted guidance”—Vanyr’s voice dripped sarcasm—“he developed an ambition every bit as strong as Sonten’s. I imagine the two of them were hoping to gain a leg-up on the back of Rykan’s take-over, but I have no doubt that once the youth reached his full potential, he and his loving uncle would have found a way to remove Rykan and take his place. Just like Sonten ousted Lord Corbyn.

  “Unfortunately for Sonten, his nephew was killed a few months ago. Rather suspicious circumstances too, in my opinion. The account I heard claims it happened during a peasant uprising in his province, but Sonten’s peasants are far too downtrodden. They wouldn’t have the strength to revolt. No. It’s far more likely the young blade was raiding, or maybe dueling with an opponent too skilled for him. Sonten would have invented the story to save face.”

  He chuckled derisively. “Serves them both right. Sonten’s a self-serving, vicious bastard, and Jaskin was turning out the same.”

  Drifting almost into sleep, Sullyan suddenly jerked awake. Her arm jarred and she gave a small cry of pain. Vanyr shot her a look of concern. “Are you alright, Brynne?”

  “Torman, what did you say the nephew’s name was?”

  “Jaskin. Why?”

  “Oh, gods. Sonten. It has to be.”

  She sank back against the tree, accepting Vanyr’s help with the throbbing pain. Once it subsided, she told them her suspicions.

  “The two men who were abducted from the hill came to me at our base in Albia a couple of months ago. One of them, Taran—he’s now an Adept, although he was only a Journeyman then—had been trying for years to raise his status. Frustration made him reckless and he crossed the Veils by himself, intending to find and challenge an Andaryan Artesan. If he won the challenge, he was going to demand instruction as his prize.”

  Vanyr snorted. “What? That’s insane.”

  She nodded. “So he found it, for he was captured by a young noble out hunting. When it became apparent that Taran was an Artesan, the noble challenged him. Surrounded as he was, Taran had to accept.”

  “Why on earth did the noble challenge him?” Vanyr asked. “Why not just kill him?”

  “He gave no reason. He did not even give his name, and Taran was in no position to ask. He fought this young man, but because he had no second or witness, the noble was not bound to the Codes of Combat. When Taran proved too good a match, the noble used his power against him.”

  “No second?” Vanyr was incredulous. “Is the man stupid as well as insane?”

  She smiled wearily. “No, Torman, just desperate. He knows better now.”

  “So I should hope!” The Commander shook his head. “Go on.”

  “This part is strange. The noble attacked Taran with some kind of artifact, something that channeled and magnified his metaforce. By all accounts, it was a terrible weapon. Taran was in desperate straits, and eventually his only option was to kill the noble. But then, of course, the man’s entourage attacked him, and Taran had to flee for his life. They pursued him, but he managed to escape through the Veils. When he recovered from his wounds, he discovered he had unintentionally taken the artifact through to Albia with him. Bands of Andaryan raiders then began to plague the region, and Taran feared his actions had brought them. We now know this was coincidence, that Rykan ordered the raids as a way of persuading King Elias to send me as envoy to Count Marik. Taran, though, was convinced of his culpability, and he came to me looking for advice. When he told me what he had done, I discovered that the noble he had killed was Jaskin.”

  Ky-shan grunted. “There’s your reason behind the abduction, then. Sonten must have been raging livid.”

  Vanyr looked doubtful. “Revenge? But how would abduction benefit Sonten? If he did want revenge on this man, why not just kill him? Why take him and the other one hostage, leaving two others behind? And why then take the Captain and your other friend as well? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I agree,” said Sullyan. “If it is Sonten—and I think it has to be—then maybe he knows about the artifact. Maybe he wants it back, although as he is not an Artesan he cannot use it. I was not aware before today that he was Jaskin’s uncle, or I might have suspected him sooner. But if Sonten is the connection, I still cannot explain how he knew it was Taran who killed Jaskin and took the weapon. They never met, and even if they had, how could Sonten know Taran was in Andaryon? From what Rienne told me, the men who came for Taran and Cal knew exactly who, where, and what they were. How can that be?”

  Vanyr pursed his lips. “If this Taran and the noble never exchanged names, how do you even know it was Jaskin he fought?”

  “Taran described him and I remembered Jaskin’s family colors. I had encountered him before. Robin and I ran into him a couple of times a year or so ago. He was a prolific raider into our lands, so we gave him a few good reasons to steer clear of us.”

  Vanyr smiled. “I bet you did. So, that solves one part of the mystery, if it is Sonten. The only thing we don’t know is exactly what he wants your friends for.”

  Sullyan shook her head, and they sat chewing over it a while longer. Without reaching a conclusion, they turned in to sleep, Vanyr and Ky-shan both insistent that Sullyan would not be woken under any circumstances for a turn on watch. She glared at them and used a few pithy words, but they remained unmoved. Grumbling at their amused expressions, she gave in and rolled herself carefully in her cloak to sleep by the fire.

  Chapter Four

  Dawn found them already mounted and moving through the dense trees. It was a crisp, cold day with only a few clouds crossing the weak sun. Vanyr and Sullyan once again took the lead, but this time they sent scouts ahead to keep watch for any sign of their quarry.

  Almid and Kester were Sullyan’s preferred scouts because she could track them through the substrate. If either of them found anything, they could alert her without returning. To save her energy, Vanyr tried to read them also, but his skills were not sufficient and he had to give up.

  They made good time, pushing on through the day without stopping for a noon meal, only eating a little bread and dried meat in the saddle. Sullyan found riding much easier without the stitches in her side, and even her arm was less painful. She tried moving it once or twice, but soon desisted. It was still too early.

  The hoof prints they followed hardly deviated from their southeasterly direction. The press of trees was clearly keeping their quarry to the trail. Vanyr found a spot where they must have stopped for food and rest, and Sullyan spent precious minutes searching the ground for any sign that her friends had been there. The prints of all the Manor horses were evident, but she could find no boot prints she recognized. She had hoped Robin or Bull might manage to leave her a clue, but there was nothing. She disliked the implications of that.

  Again, they rode late into the evening gloom until they were unable to see the tracks. Sullyan fretted, sure their quarry could not be far away. The tracks were fresh, their spacing and depth indicating the band was moving at an unhurried pace. She surmised they did not intend going much farther with their prisoners, and Vanyr agreed. Once they stopped for the night, she contacted Almid and Kester, calling them back from their scouting.

  After they had all eaten, she prepared to sweep the area with her metasenses. She was convinced Robin and Bull were close by and could not rest until she had searched as far as she could. Her reserves were still low, so she asked Vanyr to link with her in case she overtaxed herself. He readily agreed and sat beside her, staring into the fire to aid his concentration. Sullyan, buoyed by Vany
r’s strength, cast out her senses, following the southeasterly trend.

  The forest provided plenty of cover for anyone wishing to hide. With no pattern of psyche to follow, she was searching blind. Keeping the patterns of all four men firmly in her mind—it was possible that one of them might slip free for an instant or one of their captors make a mistake—she searched for signs of life.

  The forest animals, such as there were in late winter, were mostly going about their usual business, undisturbed. She sought as far as she could, yet found nothing. Dispirited, she prepared for another sweep, knowing Vanyr thought she had already gone far enough. She pushed his half-formed protest aside and suddenly, faint within the substrate, caught the unmistakable signature of Fire. In such dense woodland there should be no fire, unless from some charcoal-burner’s clamp. Yet the recent fighting would have frightened off any woodland workers, so she was sure she had found her quarry.

  Eagerly following this imprint of Fire, she inched closer. Soon she found a spot where the substrate was considerably disturbed. Expending a touch more power, she was able to sense a group of men camped within the trees, around twenty-five or so, she thought. Now that she was focused, she could see the unmistakable flare in the substrate indicating the presence of Artesans, although the patterns were unknown to her. What made her heart leap with hope, though, were faint traces of other psyche patterns. Barely detectable patterns. Refining her probe as far as she could, she caught the characteristic tang of spellsilver.

  Immediately, she withdrew, allowing Vanyr to provide the strength to bring them both back. As he did so, she examined what she had seen, convinced this was the group they sought. Once she and Vanyr broke their link, she related her find to the pirates.

  Ky-shan narrowed his eyes. “Twenty-five, Lady? Against our twelve?”

  “Four of them are ours,” she reminded him, “so sixteen against twenty-one, if we can free them. Surely not insurmountable odds?”