by C. M. Hayden
“W-W-We have the l-law on our side,” Prince Lethen said.
“And fear,” Cecil said. He was a thick-armed titan of a man. “They know it would be difficult to depose us without magic on their side.”
“Difficult, but not impossible,” Vexis said. “Between them, they have armies numbering in the tens of thousands. Maybe more. Do you think anyone in this room could take on ten thousand men?”
While they contemplated this, a knock came at the door. From it, appeared Lord Sarinel, the large, imposing Lord Paramount. He was accompanied by two of his men, each of which kept their hands firmly on the hilt of their swords.
Despite his brutish appearance, in a more private setting, Sarinel was rather friendly. He acknowledged each of them, even taking a moment to bow before Prince Lethen before he spoke.
“Is there news?” Halric asked.
“Your gambit seems to have worked, old man,” Sarinel said. “The official word of the council will come soon, but I decided to pay you a courtesy visit to tell you the outcome in person.”
Prince Lethen was trembling, and Vexis came behind him, patting his shoulder.
There was a tense pause as Sarinel’s hard eyes looked the thin, lanky prince over. “My sword is yours, my prince. Seven thousand men.”
“And what about the others?” Halric asked.
“The council is nearly unanimous, only one lord dared dissent,” Sarinel said.
“Who?” Nima asked.
“I’ll bet it was Folsom, that fat, pig bastard,” Vexis muttered.
Sarinel raised one of his thin eyebrows. “In fact, it was Archcleric Ricarn of Nir Daras. He’s made his opposition clear, and won’t support the claim.”
Vexis seemed genuinely surprised by this. “Ricarn? But my father appointed him. He always seemed loyal.”
“Loyal to Father,” Sura said, stressing the last word.
“It seems to be the case,” Sarinel said.
Vexis eyed Halric. “This is a problem.”
Halric nodded, then tapped his cane on the ground. “Out. All of you.”
All obeyed immediately, but as Nima and Vexis were going to leave, Halric called to them. “Not you two. Shut the door.”
Nima did so, and she and Vexis took a seat opposite of Halric.
“You don’t seem too pleased,” Vexis said, propping her feet up on an ottoman and pouring herself some tea. “We got everything we wanted.”
“We needed Archcleric Ricarn more than any of them,” Halric explained. “It’s imperative that we access Nir Daras.”
“Nir Daras doesn’t have much in the way of an army. It’s a city full of priests and clerics. They don’t pose a threat.”
“No, they don’t,” Halric said. “But the Deeplight is buried beneath the Temple City. If we’re going to control Craetos, we need access to it.”
“I’m not worried,” Vexis said. “When Ricarn sees every other city submit to the new Emperor, he’ll submit too.”
“What if he doesn’t?” Nima said.
“Then we’ll march ten thousand men to his doorstep and take it by force,” Vexis said, sipping her drink.
“It’s more complicated than that,” Halric said. “It could take months to organize a siege, and we need to be in Nir Daras at a very particular time. The Temple City is built on one of the Archives of the Old High Gods. The interior will become accessible during a Double Eclipse, where both moons are in perfect alignment with the sun.”
“How do you know that?” Vexis asked.
“It was how your father got inside all those years ago, and stole the Netherlight,” Halric said. “Of course, doing so activated ancient defenses that made getting the Deeplight impossible.”
“If it’s impossible to get it, why are we even trying?” Vexis asked.
“Your father’s untimely death has turned ‘impossible’ into merely ‘unlikely.’ There is a way to bypass the defenses of Nir Daras, but to do it, we’ll need help.”
Nima didn’t like the way he said this. “What kind of help?” she asked cautiously.
“I’m glad you asked, Miss Nima,” Halric said, grinning. “Because I have a task for you. Have you ever been to Caelis Enor?”
Chapter Nine
The Prisoner
The cell Praxis had been relegated to was fairly pleasant. It wasn’t even truly a cell, rather it was one of High Inquisitor Halric’s many workshops deep beneath the Grand Aculam. Praxis wasn’t sure how long he’d been down there—it could’ve been days or weeks. The only light came from a magistry lantern on Halric’s paper-strewn desk in the corner.
Still, despite being confined, it could’ve been worse. At the very least, Praxis had access to hundreds of alchemical textbooks and other reading material. The shelves lining the room were packed full of them, alongside scale building models, and old dragon relics. Of course, Halric had been careful to remove anything that could’ve been used to escape. On the doors were confinement enchantments that could only be deactivated from the other side, leaving Praxis trapped.
The only company in his workshop prison was Halric’s young protégé, Berric Mathan, who would come by once a day to deliver Praxis a few scraps of food. The scrawny boy never spoke, never even looked Praxis directly in the eye, and seemed altogether odd.
While Praxis was leafing through Five Hundred Splendid Herbs by Farseer Ashti Calcarist, he heard footsteps outside the workshop door. The tiny hatch slid open, and Praxis expected to find Berric Mathan peeking in from the other side. Instead, it was his sister, Sura. She was a full foot shorter than himself, with bright blonde—almost white—hair that was cut at shoulder length. She had echoes of her sisters’ soft facial features, but had a distinctive hardness about her eyes that made her look like she was locked into a permanent scowl.
He scrambled toward the door. “Sura!” he whispered. “What are you doing here?”
Sura’s eyes were wet with tears. “It’s a lie, isn’t it?” she said. “Tell me it’s a lie.”
“What’s a lie?” Praxis said, not sure what she was talking about.
“You didn’t kill Father, did you?”
Praxis’ eyes narrowed. “Is that the lie Vexis is spewing?”
“It’s that Endran girl, too. She and Vexis said you murdered him because you were jealous. Said it in front of the entire Golden Council.”
Praxis took his sister’s hands. “You know I would never do that.”
“I know…it’s just…she’s got everyone fooled. Even Cecil. I don’t know what to do.” She took a deep breath, and calmed herself.
Praxis started to pace around the workshop. “I took that Nima girl under my wing, taught her how to use her powers. Taught her everything I know. How could she betray me like this? Of all the blackened luck—”
“We need to get you out of here,” Sura interrupted.
“Did you bring an inscriber?” Praxis asked, gesturing at the enchantment on the outer side of the workshop door.
Sura produced one from her pocket, and began to dispel the enchantments, one by one. As she did, Praxis kept watch.
“Vexis and the High Inquisitor seem to trust that Endran girl more than her own family,” Sura said as she worked on dispelling the enchantment. “I was eavesdropping and heard she’s going on some special mission to Caelis Enor, with a shard of the Netherlight.”
One by one, the runes on the door died, and after a few minutes, the workshop opened. Praxis pulled his sister into a hug.
“You have to go,” Sura said, rubbing her eyes on his shirt. “You can’t stay in Helia. She’ll kill you, I just know it.”
“I know,” Praxis said. “But my wife…my daughter.”
“I warned Sedi already. She escaped on a merchant ship with your girl, gone to one of the Free Cities, Aleth,
to wait for you.”
Praxis breathed a sigh of relief. He grabbed her hands and cupped them with his own. “I won’t be going to Aleth.”
“What?” Sura said. “It’s too dangerous to stay here.”
“I’m not staying here, either,” Praxis said. “You said Nima has a mission in Caelis Enor?”
Sura nodded, wiping her matted hair from her eyes. “With the Northmen. She mentioned the Red King, Mjolir. Whatever she wants from him, it can’t be good.”
“Then I know my destination. Send word to my wife. Tell her to keep moving; if she’s caught, she’ll be a liability. Tell her to meet me in the Eastwyn in six months.”
“Am I not coming with you?” Sura asked.
“I need you here,” Praxis said. “You’re my eyes and ears. Together, we’ll bring that bastard to heel and restore our family to glory. And if I run into Nima, I’ll be sure to send her your regards.”
Sura glared up, her eyes dark. “Make sure she suffers.”
Chapter Ten
The Deeplight Shard
Taro was sitting on the top bunk in his quarters, cleaning the already immaculate ink spout on his inscriber when Kyra entered. She looked around briefly, seeing that Fenn wasn’t present. Taro peered down at her, then leaned up.
He hadn’t been doing anything specifically. The technical term was “brooding,” as cleaning his inscriber was just an excuse to stay busy. They’d left Endra Edûn a day ago, and had gotten far enough from the Arclight for normal day and night cycles to return. It was dark outside the cabin porthole, with only wisps of cloud and glimmers of starlight passing by.
Kyra carried two piping hot bowls of stew and buttered rolls. She set the tray down on the floor, and flung a pack off her back.
Cautiously, Taro climbed down the bunkbed. Climbing was not something that came easy to him; normally he would’ve asked for the bottom bunk to avoid it entirely, but Taro doubted Fenn would give it up.
“I thought you’d be in the mess hall,” Kyra said, crossing her legs and rummaging through her pack. She pulled out a huge book titled Templuric Amplification Effects on Runic Magistry, by Shoron Briego, Mgr. It was a ponderous tome with coiled ouroboros on the cover. She opened the book to the first chapter, and turned it to face Taro when he sat across from her.
“There’s a lot on my mind,” Taro said.
Kyra gave a knowing nod. “I understand.” There was an awkward pause. “I brought you a bite to eat.”
“Thanks,” Taro said, pulling the bowl toward him. It was only then that he realized how hungry he was, and began to scarf the stew down. It was fairly good, too, as was not always the case with airship rations. “What’s the book for?”
“I told Magister Veldheim that I’d keep you caught up on your lessons while we were gone.”
Taro swallowed, then broke one of the rolls in half, dipping it into the stew. “Umm…”
“He’s your sponsor, right?”
“I guess,” Taro said.
“All the gallivanting you’ve been doing around Arkos has left you miles behind most artificers. Not a good place to be if you ever want to become a magister.”
Taro smiled shyly. “Sure you still want to tutor me? I’m awful thick-headed.”
“That much I know. But we’ll make a magister out of you yet.”
Two hours into their study session, just as Taro was finally starting to grasp Magister Fallon’s Theory of Transkenetic Magistry, Fenn blustered into the cabin, humming and reeking of alcohol. Taro and Kyra had been lying side by side rather close, and though they hadn’t been doing anything besides studying, Kyra bolted quickly to her feet in a rather suspicious way.
“Fenn,” she said, noting the bottle in his hand.
“Oi, lovebirds,” he said, stumbling. He leaned into her ear. “You know, Kurian’s gonna be jealous.” He hiccupped and pointed to Taro. “About you and him, I mean.”
Kyra gave him an exhausted look. “Fennrick, you promised you’d stop drinking.”
“D’hear that? She called me by my full name. That’s a bad sign.” Fenn seemed to be speaking to an empty corner.
Kyra swiped at the bottle, but missed. “Fenn, please. I’m going to need your help, and you need to be sober for it.”
“Why?” Fenn asked. “I always do my best work when I’ve had a sip or two.”
Taro stood and gave Fenn a disgusted look. “Why are you wasting your time with this guy? You said you used to be friends, but obviously all he cares about is pissing his brain cells away.”
“He’s not himself,” Kyra said quietly. “Sometimes when he gets depressed he gets out of control.”
Fenn wobbled forward, and his hand ran across Kyra’s backside. “I’m so being myself.”
Kyra’s placating expression disappeared. She stared her friend down with hard eyes. “Fenn, get your hand off me.”
“Oh, come on,” Fenn said, nuzzling drunkenly against her.
Taro grabbed Fenn by the wrist, forcing him off her with a hard shake. “She said don’t touch her.”
Fenn’s face scrunched. “The hero comes to the rescue,” he said. “You know she’s far stronger than you, right? She doesn’t need your help. If she wanted to, she could’ve broken every bone in my wrist. She doesn’t need a cripple helping her.”
Taro swung at Fenn again, missing by mere inches. Despite his drunken state, Fenn was able to land a solid blow on Taro’s right cheek. Chaos followed thereafter, and while the punches had no templar behind them, they weren’t friendly strikes.
“Stop!” Kyra said. Neither Taro or Fenn let up.
Taro managed to drop Fenn to the ground, and knelt over him with his hands around the boy’s neck.
In all the commotion, Kyra had retrieved the Deeplight sword from Taro’s pack. She held it toward them, and spoke again. “Stop.”
Taro and Fenn broke apart from one another, quick as a lightning bolt.
“Sit,” Kyra commanded.
Taro felt his legs bend into a sitting position, and Fenn followed suit. Fenn seemed astounded by what was happening. His eyes went from Kyra to Taro in a confused gesture.
“Merciful gods, what is that?” he asked, seeming to sober a bit.
“Shut up,” Kyra snapped.
Fenn opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. His lips moved, and there was the barest hint of air passing from his throat, but it took a few moments before he was able to will himself to defy her.
Kyra set the sword down, glaring at Fenn all the while. “If you touch me again like that, I really will break every bone in your wrist.” Then, she turned that terrible glare at Taro. “And as for you: I’m a magister. I can handle myself, thank you.”
Taro looked at the floor and mumbled an apology. Fenn did the same, but his eyes were distracted by the sword.
“May I?” Fenn asked, sounding surprisingly sober as his hand hovered over the warped cross of metal.
Kyra looked to Taro for a response. Reluctantly, he agreed.
“Fine,” Taro said.
“Where the hell did you find this?” Fenn asked, running his hands along the burnished black metal.
“I found it with the Netherlight in Helia Edûn,” Taro said.
Fenn nodded as if he’d been expecting that answer. “How could the Shahl have gotten his hands on Raethelas?”
“Raethelas?” Kyra exclaimed. “You know what it is?”
Fenn stood quickly and hurried to his packs leaning against the curved back wall of the cabin. He rummaged through stacks of books, until he found a long rectangular wooden box. Inside, on a bed of silk, was a torn, worn, ancient journal with a strange copper emblem on the cover.
Fenn flipped through a few pages of handwritten scribbling in the same language that was on the sword itself. H
e stopped on a page with a charcoal rubbing on it, in the exact shape and size as the sword’s hilt. Fenn picked the sword up and matched it perfectly to the image.
“Syseril?” Kyra asked.
Fenn brimmed with excitement. “Syseril was just the beginning.”
Taro didn’t enjoy being kept out of the loop. “Mind filling me in?”
Fenn spoke up first, brandishing the journal. “This was written by Craetos himself. It came into my possession years ago, during my magister’s trial with Kyra and Kurian. I’ve been trying to decipher it ever since.”
“Craetos?” Taro said. “Then the language on the cover is Draconic?”
“Proto-draconic,” Fenn corrected, holding one finger up. “From an era when the dragons and the Old Gods lived together. During the age of Nuruthil. The Old World, as they say.”
“Can you read it?” Kyra asked.
Fenn tilted his hand back and forth. “Somewhat. Reading it is one thing, understanding it is another. It’s like Kurian said, Draconic relies heavily on context. Ever since our trial, I’ve been using my free time in the Librarium to research this.”
“Did you show it to Antherion?” Kyra asked curiously.
“I tried. But when he caught a glimpse of it, he sent me straight away. Refused to talk to me for months.” Fenn tapped the book’s cover. “I think Craetos is a sore subject for the dragonkin.”
Taro spoke up. “Arangathras said that his grave was disturbed recently, that Vexis brought his corpse back to life…but not all the way. He said it was a half-life, cursed. He was very unsettled about it, said it threw the future into disarray.”
“The future?” Fenn asked blankly.
“You’ve never heard of Midsight before?”
“I’ve read about it. The belief that some dragons can see the future.”
“It’s more complicated than that. Arangathras explained it to me. Some dragons can see possible futures, sometimes hundreds of futures at once. They don’t know which one will be the real future, but they can plan around several possible outcomes. They called Craetos the ‘All-Seer’ because, apparently, he could always pick out the most likely future.”
