“Brugarn probably wrote it himself,” Serdot said to Arthan. “Heavy-handed like Asteroth and Erath, yet the king says nothing…”
Arthan looked at Erech. He was slumped on the throne, staring down the length of the great hall and oblivious to the commotion around him. Queen Andrilenne, surprisingly present, watched Brugarn with apparent curiosity. She seemed surprised by the proclamation and yet impressed with Brugarn’s nerve.
“And finally,” Brugarn continued, “the third ruling of the Proclamation of Expediency is the creation of a new servant of the king. The Marshal of Inquiry will investigate the recent assassinations, superseding the authority of chief magistrates of all ministries and territories. The king will confirm the holder of this title in due course.”
“Which means him,” Serdot whispered.
Brugarn permitted himself a vile smirk. Clearly satisfied with himself, Brugarn turned to the king. “Your Majesty?”
Erech snapped out of his thoughts and stood. As he stepped from the throne to address the court, he stumbled and dropped the ancient sword of Rhunegeld. The courtiers cringed to see the blade clatter down the steps of the dais onto the stone floor, to hear the dissonant sound.
There was a collective gasp as the finest symbol of Donovan’s storied past crashed to the floor. Erech’s eyes widened, for he knew the great dishonor he had inflicted on himself and all present. He froze in his pitiful position, unable to speak or recover the relic. Even Brugarn and Chaultion were appalled. But none moved to pick it up.
Arthan felt Serdot nudge him. Without thinking, he stepped forward slowly, carefully. As reverently as he could, Arthan picked up the sword, holding the blade and hilt, and gracefully offered it back to Erech with palms up.
A small light appeared in the king’s eyes, which Arthan had not seen since his arrival. Erech gave a slight nod of appreciation. Regaining a dram of dignity, he sheathed Rhunegeld with a quick snap. Then, without a word, the king retreated to his chambers alone.
38. FETZER
Thorendor Castle, Wallevet Ministry
Flowertide, 3034
Fetzer was finishing breaking his night fast with the other students in the great hall when a bell clanged three times.
“To the training hall,” Marlan said.
The veteran pupils broke into a jog down the corridors, with Fetzer and Rodel following behind. Up they went past their quarters to the third floor of the castle. Bertwil led them through a large square room filled with many exotic weapons and armor. Wooden tables and racks were laden with swords and axes. Weaponry such as Fetzer had never seen before hung on the walls flanked by shields painted with foreign markings.
Bertwil continued through the armory into the large training hall. The ceiling was a dome with many windows and beneath them, a balcony ringed the whole chamber. Countless years of practice battles scarred the gray stone walls. The floor was waxed tiles of hardwood bolted down in the corners.
“Welcome,” Arasemis said. He stood in the center of the hardwood tiles, his one arm holding a long quarterstaff behind his back. Fetzer glanced around; no one else was armed.
“Shall I fetch equipment, Master?” Marlan asked.
Arasemis twirled the quarterstaff and pointed it toward a pile by the wall. “Leathers only,” he said.
The students donned padded shirts, open-faced padded helmets, and kneepads. But no weapons. When they were ready, Arasemis, who wore his usual robes, glanced down at his right side. Fetzer noticed a small red pouch dangling from his belt.
“Your objective is this purse,” Arasemis said. “Rodel, you first.”
Fetzer reluctantly stepped aside to let Rodel past. Again the Rugen got the attention that should have been reserved for him, he thought. He watched impatiently as Rodel walked cautiously onto the hardwood tiles. Arasemis did not move until Rodel was within reach of his quarterstaff. Then the master swept it out, forcing Rodel to duck and roll. Arasemis easily sidestepped Rodel’s grab for the purse, then whacked him in the back of the head.
“Too slow,” Arasemis pronounced. “Who’s next?”
Fetzer rushed in, dodging Arasemis’s quarterstaff jab. Another step, and he found the quarterstaff at his legs. Arasemis tripped him, and he landed on his back.
“Too reckless,” Arasemis said.
Fetzer rolled away as Bertwil came forward, blocking a strike with his broad forearm. Arasemis twirled the quarterstaff, landing blows to Bertwil’s head, belly, and knee. He went down, and Arasemis pinned him by his neck with the staff.
“Work together!” the master shouted.
Juhl and Marlan bolted in. They were both exceptionally fast. Marlan feigned a rush for the purse, then ran toward the wall. Juhl got close to Arasemis but he twisted away, the red purse lifting from his belt as he spun like a top. He tripped her with the staff as Marlan ran up the wall to the balcony.
Rodel rolled in and came at Arasemis opposite Juhl, then Fetzer joined them. The three students struggled to keep their heads from getting whacked. The quarterstaff caught Fetzer’s legs, and he was soon on his back again. Marlan flipped off the high balcony.
Arasemis whacked Rodel, tripped Juhl, then guided Marlan’s fall with the staff so that he landed on Bertwil. All the students slowly came to their feet, panting. Arasemis breathed calmly, as if he were simply out for a stroll.
“Again!” he shouted.
Fetzer grew determined. He joined the others in rushing Arasemis from all sides. Using his one arm, Arasemis pole-vaulted from the floor and bounded off Bertwil’s chest before crashing into Marlan. Then he jabbed the quarterstaff at Fetzer’s padded forehead and hooked Juhl’s foot, sending them both down. Rodel lunged for the purse when the master’s back was turned but received a forehead jab without Arasemis bothering to turn around.
“Better…” Arasemis said. He walked to the wall and opened a wooden panel set in the stone. It was like a little cabinet, with several iron rings tied to ropes coming out of the wall. Arasemis pulled one of the rings. Fetzer crouched when flapping and creaking sounds emerged from beneath the floor. Arasemis grew taller. Fetzer watched as a section of the hardwood floor rose up on a stone column. Then another section rose, forming an X-shaped wall with the first. It stopped waist-high, with Arasemis standing in the center. “Again!” he shouted.
The students hoisted themselves onto the short wall and ran toward Arasemis. He easily plucked them from the wall, disrupting their balance by jabbing at their feet, heads, and hands. None got close until Juhl somersaulted along the wall, just touching the purse. Arasemis struck her legs hard, sending her to the floor.
Bertwil rushed in and managed to clutch the quarterstaff in one big hand. Fetzer saw his opening and lunged for the purse. Arasemis rotated his wrist, twisting a hidden joint in the staff. It separated into two halves. He beat Fetzer in the ribs until he fell from the wall.
Bertwil charged with his half of the staff as Juhl and Marlan ran along the walls toward the master. Arasemis turned to parry Bertwil but the big Almerian tossed the half staff to Marlan, letting Arasemis beat him from the wall. Marlan caught the half staff, rolled under Arasemis’s preemptive strike, then knocked the purse off his belt and into the air.
Arasemis cast Marlan from the wall as Juhl leaned out to catch the purse. She did not see his half staff come from behind. Arasemis next batted the purse back into the air and hooked the string on the end of the staff. He calmly walked to the wall panel and pulled another iron ring in the cabinet.
Fetzer stepped away as the short walls sank back into the floor, then deeper, forming an X-shaped waist-deep ditch. Arasemis walked to the center and straddled the gap, the purse held aloft on the tip of his half staff.
The students regrouped with Rodel holding the half staff now. Everyone except Rodel rushed along the wedges of floor toward the master. Arasemis danced above the gap while batting the purse up and down between striking them. Rodel crouched down in the ditch and edged toward Arasemis. M
arlan fell into the ditch opposite him, then Rodel stabbed up at Arasemis’s legs. He could not touch the master and was soon disarmed.
Arasemis flipped Rodel’s half staff up and twisted the two halves back together, restoring its full length but letting the purse fall into the center of the ditch under him. Every time Rodel or Marlan reached for it Arasemis blocked their hands with the quarterstaff, all while simultaneously fending off Bertwil and Juhl. Fetzer dove into the ditch for a chance at the purse.
With the three pairs of reaching hands and the distraction from Bertwil and Juhl, Arasemis was unable to prevent Fetzer from snatching the purse. Fetzer was elated for the briefest of moments before finding that Rodel had also snatched the string of the purse. He jerked it out of Rodel’s grasp, then rolled backward through the ditch. Fetzer stood up victoriously, but again it was brief. Arasemis caught the purse with the staff, lobbed it up into the air, then swatted it back down into Fetzer’s face.
An acrid yellow smoke burst out of the purse, sending Fetzer back into the ditch, coughing and sputtering to his knees. He wiped frantically at his eyes as his vision darkened. His eyes numbed so much that he could not tell if his eyelids were open or closed.
“Help me!” he shrieked. “I cannot see!”
“Calm yourself,” Arasemis said. “It is only temporary…”
Fetzer, still crouched in the ditch, struggled to control himself. There was flapping and creaking underfoot as the floor leveled out again. Then he noticed a peculiar sensation of knowing, somehow, exactly where each iron gear, rope, and pulley was under the floor. It was a massive contraption.
As he brought his head up, he could hear everyone’s breath and movements, and smell every drip of sweat. In his mind’s eye, he could see exactly where everyone was standing. Fetzer felt his body grow colder. Even with the padded leathers and wooden plates that had softened the blows, his body had grown sore. But now the soreness drifted away. He stood upright, facing the one he somehow knew was Arasemis.
“How do you feel?”
“Peculiar…but well enough…”
“Do not fear the mixture,” Arasemis said. “Defend yourself before it wears off.”
“Can he not see us?” Rodel asked.
“To us his eyes appear to see, but they are blind,” Arasemis said. “And yet, he can see much more than you can. Observe.”
Arasemis tossed the quarterstaff to Fetzer. The latter instinctively ducked but outstretched his hand and caught the weapon, surprising himself. Fetzer heard Arasemis return to the wall cabinet and then there was more shifting underfoot. He could envision the movements, each vibration. He knew the pattern in the floor was repeating, with the tiles varying between heights and depths of one finger length up to two hand lengths. A trip hazard, like a rock field. The students adjusted their stances as the whole floor changed. Bertwil’s breathing suggested great stress.
“Proceed,” Arasemis said.
Fetzer could not help but smile. He could see his opponents’ approach in his mind’s eye. Juhl was close, her steps the lightest. He lashed out at her and heard Marlan charge, followed by the rest. Fetzer felt his thinking recede to the back of his mind as a natural instinct came to the forefront. He whirled the quarterstaff like an extension of his body. Though he did not know acrobatics like wall running, his swordcraft blended easily with whatever ability was flowing through him. He heard the others struggle over the irregular floor, but his balance was effortless.
It took some time before anyone could land a blow. Fetzer felt himself grow tired. It came on quickly. Arasemis, who Fetzer knew had stayed by the wall cabinet, finally spoke.
“Enough, leave him be.”
The floor evened out again and Fetzer sat down, rolling his eyes around to find light. He heard Arasemis and the others approach.
“How was that possible?” Rodel asked.
“Much more is possible with alchemy,” Marlan said.
“Not only that,” Arasemis said, “the melding of aerina arcana and chemina arcana. A more advanced arcanae always augments a lesser one. How do you feel, Fetzer?”
“Exhausted. But I want to breathe more of that stuff.”
“A little can give you an advantage,” Arasemis said. “A lot can kill you.”
Fetzer stopped smiling.
“What is arcanae?” Rodel asked.
“Aerina and chemina are two of the three schools of the ancient arts. Remove your leathers. It is time to take you to the library.”
39. MILISEND
Eglamour Palace, Toulon Ministry
Flowertide, 3034
“You’d like me to believe you’ve been idle, Princess. But I know you are plotting your next theft.”
Milisend tried to hide her surprise as Magistrate Tronchet came around the corner.
“I must say, I’m disappointed that you’ve taken to dabbling in alchemical ruses. As if thievery were not enough to dishonor your house, you must stoop to embracing ancient crackpottery.”
“Enough, rat catcher!” Her echo rattled down the empty corridor. The smug self-assurance on Tronchet’s face melted into genuine hurt. She wondered how the soft-skinned man had ever become the most senior lawkeeper in the capital.
“I apologize for shouting,” she went on. “I did not steal those things, and I do not dabble in alchemy. I’m the king’s daughter…” She did not enjoy lying to Tronchet, even if he did not believe her.
“You must stop thieving,” he said. “It is not becoming of a princess. And it’s not proper for a lord minister’s wife, nor a queen.”
Milisend’s eyes narrowed. “What have you heard about marriage?”
“I—I presumed…Well, like Princess Avalane, that you would—”
“Don’t presume anything about me!” she snapped. And yet she was unsure why it made her angry.
“I was merely saying that theft is below a royal princess.”
“Even if your accusations were true, is it not a trifle? Of all the problems plaguing Eglamour…the rioting, the intrigue, the enemies on our borderlands. You of all people should be more concerned about that and less concerned about me.”
“I take my duties as chief magistrate very seriously, Princess, from the most sinister crime to the pettiest offenses.” Tronchet paused and blinked. “Did you just confess to the thievery?” he asked slowly, his silver mustache twitching expectantly.
Milisend looked away from his wide eyes. “No.”
Tronchet seemed oddly relieved. “Then I will continue my duty and will not rest until I’ve caught you in the act.” He turned and, almost triumphantly, left Milisend alone and confused.
“Is everything all right?”
The voice came from the end of the corridor.
“Lord Valient?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to intrude,” he said. “It’s just, I was leaving the palace and heard—”
“Nothing of importance, Lord Minister,” she said, uncertain of what he’d overheard. “He keeps bothering me about a trivial complaint.”
“Who was that—Tronchet?”
“Never mind. Are you departing for Delavon Ministry?” She walked beside him, thinking of her mother’s designs on them as a pair. He was handsome—but distant.
“No, though I do miss Rachard,” Arthan said. “I have an estate here in the city, Clonmel. I’m retiring there for the evening.”
“It must be wonderful to escape the madness of this palace.”
Arthan cleared his throat. “It is a nice respite.”
Milisend stopped and faced him. “Have you known love, Lord Minister?”
He looked confused but quickly recovered. “I…have known love, yes.”
“Has it ever been forced upon you?”
“Well, no. I suppose not.” He gave a little nod. “But as a princess, I assume you must—”
“Don’t assume anything about me.”
Arthan nodded again. His eyes traced his path to the
door. Before she could apologize, a man with shorn hair and a dark cloak walked in and went straight to Arthan, barely acknowledging her.
“My lord, a letter has arrived from your brother in Alpenon.”
“I was on my way to Clonmel,” Arthan said, eagerly taking the parchment from the man. He glanced at Milisend, trying to extricate himself from a situation she knew she’d made awkward.
“Who is this?” she asked, extending the discomfort.
“My political counselor,” Arthan said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“A good night to you,” Milisend said as she turned to leave.
“Good night.”
They left the building as she walked toward her chambers. She wished she had been more polite. She wished she had not been so frustrated with Tronchet. Most of all, she wished to fly away and be wrapped in Regaume’s arms.
40. ARTHAN
Clonmel Estate in Eglamour, Toulon Ministry
Flowertide, 3034
“A letter from your brother in the south borderlands, my lord.” The messenger handed the letter to Arthan.
Dear Brother,
Thank you for your letter about Father, though I wish I could thank you for calling me back to Rachard. Since you were never given as a ward to a man like Asteroth, I’ll tell you there is nothing worse than being far from home when Father died and being absent when he was entombed.
But I know you represented our house well, and now in the king’s capital. Moreover, if you had perished in Mordmerg, I would have nothing to do with my rage. I think you can understand why I’m upset with you, Brother.
My own life was in danger of being cut short in Ambardil Free City when Asteroth tried to take the place by force. You’ve probably heard what he did to the Almerian garrison and the alderman by now, before the people ran us out of the city. It’s a matter of time before he sets his eyes on it again with a large force.
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