Affinity for War

by Frank Morin

  The large main square, with streets emptying into it at every corner, was paved with an alternating pattern of brick and cobblestones that converged at a three-tiered, circular fountain in the center. No water was flowing at the moment, so of course a dozen boys had climbed the fountain for a better view over the crowds. The square would normally have seemed spacious, but at the moment it was cramped from the press of people.

  A blend of clashing smells assaulted Connor's nostrils. A distinct, ugly reek of fear hung in the air over the massed crowds, although it was dissipating as news of the death of the elfonnel spread. The smell of fresh-baked bread and grilled meat wafted from shops set up along two sides of the square. Perfumes from many of the local ladies, the warm scent of horses, and the pungent smell of their droppings mingled under it all.

  Lord Eberhard's palace and administration building on the opposite side of the square rose four stories. An enormous red stone building with two tall towers took up the left side. A huge well in its courtyard was capped with a miniature house that sheltered the buckets and pulleys. A three-story inn filled the entire right side of the square.

  Bruno headed in that direction and led them inside. The main room of the inn was long and low, with massive exposed beams, darkened from age and lamp smoke. Tables and chairs packed much of the room, and most of them were occupied with patrons eating their midday meal.

  Serving girls in azure dresses and crisp white aprons rushed to keep up, carrying platters of food and large, wooden tankards from the huge kitchen at the back. A long bar of shiny, black wood ran along the back wall to the left of the kitchen doors.

  An immense fireplace was inset into the right-hand wall, with two dozen wooden rocking chairs facing it. Even though only a small fire was burning at the moment, most of the chairs were occupied by gray-haired old men sipping tankards and talking. A steady rumble of conversation made it hard to communicate.

  A plump, elderly couple greeted them just inside the door. Their blue eyes twinkled with good humor and reflected the deep blue of their aprons. They greeted Bruno warmly, then hugged Verena joyfully, as if she was a long-lost daughter.

  Hamish leaned close so Connor could hear him. "Evert and Liesa. They own the inn. Good people. I think they're somehow related to Neasa because they make the best sweetbreads anywhere in Granadure."

  Jean said, "I would have thought Grandurian bread would be different."

  "A lot of it is, but some is similar. They've got one little pastry called a bethmannchen." He sighed, with the same expression of ecstasy he usually reserved for Neasa's best confections. "You've got to try it."

  Liesa was already gesturing them to follow, and she led them down a side hallway, then upstairs to a long hall with doors spaced regularly down both sides. She opened one. It was a sleeping chamber.

  The small room was neat and tidy, with a soft mattress on the bed. Liesa turned down the quilt, and Bruno settled the still-unconscious Aifric on the mattress.

  Jean shooed them out. "I'll watch her. Go meet that man Gisela was talking about. If he's really Mhortair, maybe he knows what's wrong with Aifric."

  "Good point," Connor said and they all trooped back downstairs.

  Gisela led them to a private dining room at the back of the first floor. It was empty but for one man sitting at the far side of a long table that could easily seat twenty.

  The man was not large, but even seated he exuded a certain calm confidence as his gray eyes swept the group. To Connor, it looked like he was sizing them up as potential targets. His clothing was rich but plain, and he could have blended in with people almost anywhere without drawing attention to himself.

  The man rose and made a short bow. "It is a rare treat to meet such a company." His low voice was not threatening, but not quite warm either. He spoke Obrioner with no accent whatsoever.

  "You know us?" Connor asked as the man moved around the table toward them.

  "By reputation."

  Connor wondered what reputation that might be. Did he really know Connor as Blood of the Tallan, Hamish as the first Obrioner Builder in three hundred years, and Verena as nobility and one of the most brilliant Builders ever? Could he know Martys, or Gisela? If they were building an international reputation already, they had to think about what kind of image they wanted to portray.

  The man studied Connor with unsettling intensity. He made no threatening move, but approached with a hand extended to shake. Still, Connor got the distinct impression that the man was considering whether or not to kill him.

  That would make introductions a bit trickier.

  He prepared to tap granite, but if the man was an Assassin, he probably had some of that weakening powder to combat primary affinities. Unlike when Aifric had attacked him, Connor was prepared to tap his tertiary affinities. He already had a piece of marble under his tongue. If the newcomer made a threatening move, he would introduce himself with fire.

  "You are Blood of the Tallan?" the man asked.

  "I like to introduce myself as Connor." The others seemed to sense the potential threat from the man and spread out a little.

  The barest frown turned down the corners of the man's mouth. "Aifric's report was at best considered vague, and at worst treasonous. Why do you think I traveled halfway across the continent to meet you for myself?"

  "Well I'm out of parchment for autographs. We kind of had a water problem today."

  The man looked annoyed, then his gaze sharpened and he demanded, "Where is Aifric?"

  "Why don't you tell me your name first? I make it a point not to hand over friends to creepy middle-aged guys who don't introduce themselves properly," Connor said, starting to feel a bit annoyed by the fellow.

  "Then you consider her friend?"

  "We haven't had to kill each other yet, so yeah, I think we're off to a good start."

  "You may call me Sir."

  Hamish barked a laugh. "That's funny. Why don't you call me Master?"

  The man glared, and he had a really good glare. It had no impact whatsoever on Hamish, who popped one of his smashpacked cubes into his mouth.

  Sir took a slow breath, and his demeanor relaxed. "I am not used to being questioned, boy. I will forgive your lack of civility this time, but I must see Aifric at once."

  "Why?" Verena asked.

  "I sense that she is in grave danger."

  Connor asked, "How can you do that? She's not here."

  "I know her."

  Hamish said, "You'll have to do better than that. We know her too."

  Sir took a deep breath and spoke slowly, as if measuring each word before releasing it. "A special connection is established between members of the Mhortair. I sense danger around her."

  "Then would it concern you to learn she's fallen into a trance-like sleep, but is actively burning obsidian at the same time?"

  Sir's expression turned alarmed. "Take me to her at once."

  He moved toward the door, and Connor found himself and the others moving with him. He didn't remember deciding to trust Sir, but something in the man's commanding tone seemed impossible to disobey.

  Martys didn't seem affected by it. He blocked the doorway, frowning. "Aifric dinnae seem well, and this bloke no has explained who he is. How do we know he's not the assassin Dougal sent?"

  That was a valid point, although Connor suspected that Dougal's assassin would have tried to kill him or Verena already.

  Sir smiled at Martys. "I like loyal friends, so I choose not to take offense. If I was here to do you harm, I would not have announced myself and waited in the open to greet you. You'd already be dead."

  "That's comforting," Hamish mumbled.

  Sir continued. "Obrion's invasion endangers the entire continent. I must see to Aifric and receive her report before I can offer any assistance."

  Connor looked to Verena, who nodded slightly. He glanced at Hamish, who shook his head. That didn't help much.

  So Connor said, "All right. We'll show you to Aifric, but that doesn't me
an we trust you yet."

  "I'd be terribly disappointed if you did."

  When they returned to where they'd left Aifric, Sir entered the room, with Connor and the others crowding in after. If Sir did anything threatening to Aifric, Connor would blast him out the window.

  Jean started to protest when they all began cramming into the room, but Sir made a calming motion. "I believe I can help."

  He crouched over Aifric and studied her. Muttering to himself in a language that Connor did not understand, Sir touched her forehead.

  Three seconds later, he gasped. "It is worse than I feared. She is in thrall to another mind."

  "How is that possible?" Connor demanded.

  "I cannot answer that until I free her."

  "Can you do that?" Verena asked.

  He nodded. "To do so, I need your promises that you will not interfere."

  "What do you plan to do?" Connor asked suspiciously.

  "I can save her, but the process is painful. I may need to make whoever is controlling her think I am killing her."

  "I don't like the sound of that," Hamish said.

  Sir looked annoyed, "They must believe. It may be best if you all wait outside."

  "We're not going anywhere," Verena said, and Connor and the others nodded agreement.

  Sir looked to each of them, holding them in his piercing, gray-eyed stare. "You cannot interfere, no matter what you think may be happening. If you interrupt the process, she will die, or at the least languish with a broken mind. Do you understand?"

  Connor exchanged a worried look with Verena, who looked unsure. Hamish and Martys both looked like they preferred the idea of beating Sir senseless before letting him even pretend to hurt Aifric. Jean looked nervous too, but spoke with the decisive tone she used when treating patients.

  "No one will interfere. You have our words."

  "Hey," Hamish objected.

  Jean raised an eyebrow and said, "Treatments can be hard, Hamish. If this is the only way to save Aifric, it must be done."

  "There's no other way?" Verena asked.

  Sir shook his head. "We cannot delay. If I am to save her, it must be now."

  "Do it," Jean told him, but as he reached for Aifric's head she added in a cold, hard tone that Connor barely recognized as hers. "If you harm her, I swear to cut out your heart myself."

  Hamish looked like he wanted to kiss her, and even Martys looked impressed. Connor decided he'd barbecue Sir's heart once Jean removed it.

  Sir took her hand and looked deep into her eyes for several seconds. Then he smiled warmly. "Your heart is honest and brave, Jean. I agree to your terms."

  He turned to Aifric and gripped her head, placing his middle fingers over her temples, index fingers over her eyes, and thumbs against her lips.

  Connor suddenly realized Sir had called Jean by name, but they'd never actually been introduced. How had he known?

  Aifric started awake, eyes wide, a look of fearful recognition on her face.

  Sir's expression turned cruel and he growled, "Die knowing you've failed to protect the Blood of the Tallan from me."

  Aifric's eyes rolled back and her body stiffened.

  Connor and Hamish both tensed to strike at Sir, but Jean pointed at them, her expression hard. She shook her head, and he remembered Sir's warning.

  Aifric began to scream.

  "Jean--" Connor started to protest, but she shot him such a withering look, his protest died on his lips.

  After making sure the others wouldn't interfere either, Jean turned back to Sir, who was bowed over Aifric, hands trembling with strain as he leaned close over her screaming form.

  "This ain't right," Martys growled, one hand on his dagger.

  Verena waved him back. "We watch for now. Tell everyone to keep back. This situation is under control."

  Only then did Connor notice the sound of many feet thundering over the wooden floor as villagers came running to see what was wrong. With a final glower, Martys stepped into the hall and started shouting for everyone to get back.

  Jean took Aifric's hand. "Pulse is dangerously high, and her temperature appears to be spiking."

  Sir said nothing, and he and Aifric remained motionless, with her endless scream pouring from her lungs.

  That sound tore at Connor's heart and drove him to act, to strike out against Sir. If Jean didn't decide soon that it needed to stop, he'd tap marble and act on his own.

  Beside him, Hamish was growling, his expression fierce, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. Verena's face had drained of color, and one hand had dipped into her satchel.

  Aifric's scream abruptly stopped, and she sagged against the bed, mouth open, breathing dangerously fast. Sir slowly removed his hands and she blinked up at him. She tried to sit up but he pressed her back down.

  She spoke words Connor did not understand. Whatever language she spoke was like whispers cast into an open sky. It wasn't that she spoke softly, but the words seemed to fade away too quickly. They were beautiful, flowing sounds, like a gentle wind through tall grasses, and she stopped far too soon for his liking.

  "What did she say?" Connor asked.

  Sir said, "Few speak Havaen, the language of breezes. She asked what I'm doing here." Then he asked Aifric gently, "What do you remember, Student Seventeen?"

  Aifric's brows furrowed in thought. Then she gasped and her eyes widened. "Sir, I failed!"

  Hamish threw up his hands in disbelief. "I can't believe it. His name really is Sir."

  Sir sat back and smiled a genuine, warm smile at Aifric. "Now that you understand that, I must decide if it is time to change your name to eighteen, or execute you immediately."

  Chapter Forty-Five

  "History relinquishes its memories with a begrudging hand."

  ~Evander

  "Let's hold off the whole execution decision for now," Connor said. Sir's calm declaration had seemed all the more dangerous because he'd said it while smiling at Aifric like a father.

  Aifric seemed to notice the rest of them for the first time. She scrambled to her feet, her cheeks flushing. "I made such a mess of everything, Connor. I swore to help you, but all I've done is put you in danger."

  Sir glanced from her to Connor. "Swearing to help your target instead of removing him is usually considered a major mistake."

  Aifric faced Sir with chin raised. "I had reasons for my choices, and I'm willing to submit to the inquisition to prove it."

  That didn't sound good. She should have promised to discuss it over bacon.

  "What happened to you?" Verena asked.

  Sir stood and waved them to silence. "We have much to discuss, but not here with half the inn trying to see what's going on. I suggest we return to that private dining room."

  "It is time for lunch," Hamish said hopefully.

  As they descended past knots of villagers still clustered at the foot of the stairs, Verena assured Liesa that all was well. Hamish took the opportunity to ask her to send in a meal. Her nervous response confirmed that she had seen Hamish eat before.

  They settled into seats around the table, with Sir at the foot and Connor at the head. He snagged a handful of smashpacked cubes from Hamish while they waited for lunch, and watched Aifric with lingering worry. Every few seconds she started, looking like a nervous rabbit, and sometimes exclaiming with soft cries of dismay.

  Sir said, "Recovering from long-term external control can be a traumatic experience. Less disciplined minds have cracked under the strain, although I am confident that Student Seventeen will survive."

  "What external control are we talking about?" Connor asked.

  "Dougal, of course. He is the only person I know outside of our enclave who even knows how such a thing could be done. He may be the only person alive who can actually accomplish it."

  Verena asked, "So Mhortair mind powers are different?"

  "The influence we wield is a temporary thing, best for gathering information from others, not forcing them to do our will."
>
  "You read people's minds?" Hamish asked, his expression mirroring Connors concern. Had Sir read their minds? Was he stealing their thoughts even now?

  Connor formed an image of Sir, bound in chains, slowly descending into a giant vat of boiling water. He watched Sir carefully, but saw no reaction. So he changed it to an image of Sir, dressed in pink tights, playing a harp.

  Still no reaction. Either Sir wasn't actively reading his mind, or the man had amazing facial control.

  "Our creed does not allow us to siphon the thoughts of our allies," Sir told Hamish calmly.

  Martys grunted, not hiding his doubt. "So we be allies?"

  "I haven't killed any of you yet."

  "And we haven't killed you," Connor said, trying to match Sir's calm. He created an image in his mind of Sir dressed in smallclothes and armed only with a chocolate pudding facing Kilian, who was encased in a blurring mixture of fire and water.

  The briefest of frowns flitted across Sir's features. Had that been a reaction to the image, or something else?

  Sir only said, "Then we're off to a good start, aren't we?"

  "I don't consider threatening Aifric a good start," Verena said.

  "The best way to root out an enemy so deeply embedded in another's mind is to make them think that person is about to die. They withdraw to avoid the pain and terror of death from radiating back through the conduit that links them to their prey."

  "And that conduit is obsidian?" Connor asked.

  Sir didn't look happy by the question. "Few know even that much."

  "That's why you kept asking for more. You needed it to maintain the connection," Verena said.

  Aifric nodded. "I kept secretly hoping you'd refuse, but I was prevented from voicing any warning."

  Jean looked fascinated by the discussion. "How does that work? When you weren't in one of those deep trances, you seemed to be acting like yourself."

  "Dougal's control was not heavy-handed. He blocked me from interfering with his access or warning you, but he was mostly interested in gathering information."

  "He's been watching us this whole time." The thought sickened Connor. No wonder Dougal had manipulated them so effectively. So many people had suffered and died because of what Dougal had done to Aifric.