Aethersmith (Book 2) (16 page)

Chapter 11 - The First of Springtime

Iridan plodded down the halls to the practice yard. He knew
that this being his wedding day would offer no reprieve from his warlock
training—he had asked. The world seemed a bit fuzzy, but he hurt less than he
had before a half bottle of wine had eased his searing headache and made the
soreness in his shoulders and hips—a remembrance of the previous day’s
beatings—easier to ignore.

He squinted his eyes, and blinked hard against the intrusion
of bright daylight as the sun shone low in the sky when he exited the palace.
He saw his father and his opponents for the morning waiting for him, as well as
more curious onlookers than were usually permitted to watch his training. Jafin
and Moln had been replaced days ago as his antagonists; he had gotten the
better of them a few times too many for Rashan’s liking. The new boys were almost
fully trained, carrying the title of squire officially. Bairn and Kolm were
their names and Iridan had taken an instant dislike to them.

“Morning, little warlock,” Kolm called out to him. He stood
more than a full head taller than Iridan and was close to Brannis’s size,
though he had not finished filling out his body with muscle the way Brannis
had.

“We won’t be having it easy on you. No weddings going on in
the yard,” Bairn added. Bairn lacked the size and reach of Kolm, but he was the
stronger fighter of the two. “We’ll keep from bruising the important bits,
though, eh?” He turned and winked to Kolm.

Braggarts. If Rashan was not here to protect you, I could
turn you to ash and you know it.

Ever since the two of them had taken over his arms practice,
Iridan had been limping his way to bed each night. Unlike with the younger
boys, Iridan could not wait for these two to make mistakes; they did not make
any that he could notice. Rashan had picked from among the best at the School
of Arms. Iridan wondered whether he would begin facing veteran soldiers if he
survived long enough to beat these two. With the beatings he had suffered at
their hands, though, he wondered if he would make it.

“Enough talk. Arm yourselves and get to work,” Rashan
snapped. Iridan had noticed that the warlock spoke differently depending on his
audience. Privately he was friendly, thoughtful, and soft-spoken. Around the
Inner Circle, he was an orator, projecting confidence and weaving tapestries of
logic and rhetoric. Among lesser underlings, especially soldiers, he was
short-tempered, all business, even rude.

Iridan took up his sword, hardwood covered in padding. He
looked at Kolm and Bairn with their bared steel, and thought it unfair.
They
are better swordsmen than I am. They are both stronger than me. I still ache
from yesterday’s training. I have no patience for this nonsense this morning.
Iridan
had enough troubles weighing on his mind already.

Kolm struck first, a probing thrust that Iridan batted away
as Bairn circled to get around him. It was much like the tactic Jafin and Moln
had used against him, but more polished in its execution. Iridan spun to meet
the attack he knew would be coming from his flank, parrying it just in time to
be struck from behind as Kolm recovered and lunged for him. The attack struck
Iridan’s shielding spell, but he felt it.

Kolm followed up with an overhand chop that caught Iridan in
the shoulder before he could get his sword up. The padded blade struck a
glancing blow against Kolm’s arm, but did nothing to disrupt the squire as he
pressed the attack.

As Iridan tried to defend himself from Kolm’s onslaught, he
saw Bairn in his aether-vision, closing from behind. Iridan dove to the side
and rolled, but the maneuver had not surprised his opponents. They pursued
quickly and were upon Iridan as soon as he gained his feet.

At least they are both in front of me for now.

He tried to mount a counteroffensive, but Bairn handily
stopped his two-handed downward hacking attack with just his one-handed blade.
Kolm’s blade struck him hard in the chest as Bairn used the momentum of
Iridan’s strike to force his blade away from where it could parry the attack.

“You are not even trying,” Rashan called out from the edge
of the yard, where he was seated and talking with a group of sorcerers and
nobles. After his admonishment, the warlock turned his attention back to the
conversation.

Rage bubbled up in Iridan.
He wasn't even watching when
he said that. He's just goading me.
Iridan drew in a bit of aether.
If
he's going to complain no matter what I do, I will at least save myself the
beating I will take.
Rashan’s rules included never using magic on his
practice opponents, but technically he was not going to use it
on
them.

Iridan’s muscles surged as he infused them with aether. It
was not quite magic, as such, but similar to a surge of adrenaline. As with any
aether directed inside a sorcerer’s body, there was risk to it, but if Iridan
was to become a warlock, then risk would be his lifelong companion. The next
cut of Kolm’s blade hit air and Iridan skipped sideways faster than the squire
could anticipate. As Bairn followed with a slash of his own, Iridan’s blade
hummed through the air, meeting the steel sword head on and nearly wrenching it
from Bairn’s grasp. He launched an attack of his own at Kolm, repeating the
same overhand strike he had tried against Bairn, but with the force of an ogre
behind it.

Kolm tried to parry the blow, but had not the strength to
divert it. His sword was swept out of the way as the padded practice blade
crashed into his collarbone with a crunch. The young squire cried out in agony
as he crumpled to the ground.

Bairn had already recovered and was trying to take Iridan
from behind. Iridan whirled and used the advantage of his longer weapon to
catch Bairn in the ribs before he could make an attack of his own. So swift had
Iridan’s blade been that the squire could not even get his sword in the way in
time to slow it. The blow lifted him from his feet, and threw him two body
lengths to the side, where he fell unmoving.

Iridan was panting with exertion and exhilaration.
I beat
them. Maybe I cheated, but I won. In a real battle, that is all that matters.

“Much better,” Rashan called out, clapping in appreciation
as he excused himself from his guests and walked toward Iridan. “I waited
nearly a full season for you to realize that. You did not use a bit of aether
on them. Well done.”

“You are not angry with me?” Iridan asked. “That
was
cheating.”

“Your goal was to best them with swords and to learn how to
fight. You have seen the futility of fighting purely defensively and took that
lesson hard,” Rashan said. “One day soon, we will sort this mess out and have
an emperor again. You will serve him. When that day comes, you must understand
that results matter, not methods. If you are given a goal and a bunch of rules,
worry about the goal. If you cannot achieve it within the rules, break them.
There are no punishments for warlocks who take matters into their own hands to
get done what needs doing. Emperors will cluck their tongues and tell you to
listen better next time, but they will forget such trespasses much more quickly
than any failure. They
need
to know that anything they wish done, they
have but to give the order. The ones that learn wisdom find out that sometimes
those orders necessitate unpleasant messes. They learn then to limit such
orders to true needs, rather than whim. You wish them to think of you as an
attack dog, not a caged songbird.”

Iridan looked pensive as he left the yard, given a reprieve
from drawing against Dolvaen, who was acting as his oathkeeper for the wedding.
Instead Iridan retired to his chambers to try to relax and refresh himself for
the noontime ceremony. It would be the last quiet respite he expected to have
for some years hence.

A soldier was sent to bring aid for the fallen squires, but
it was for show. Rashan knew from ages of experience in battle that neither
would survive the wounds Iridan had inflicted.

* * * * * * * *

“We are going over the ship with polish and cloth now, sir,”
Captain Drecker reported. “All else is as ready as we know how to make it,
considering this is new to all of us. I expect once we see it in the field, we
will have suggestions on how to improve it.”

The captain was as ambitious and capable a man as Brannis could
find in Kadrin’s neglected navy. With islands of ice to their south, Kadrin
fleets largely patrolled the waterways for smugglers and ventured out to the
waters off the eastern shore mainly as escorts. Fully self-sufficient within
its borders, Kadrin played little in the affairs of Veydrus’s naval powers.
Their navy was tiny for an empire so vast.

“Very well,” Brannis said. “There will be men with flags up
on the palace roof. When they signal, just loop around a few circuits, let the
trumpeters play their fanfare, and head back to port. Exchange those musicians
for bowmen and be off as soon as possible thereafter. Avoid flying near the
palace as you leave the city, so as not to disrupt the feast.”

“Aye, sir. We are fine for show, but none want to see us
actually working. Is that about the right of it?” Drecker was a plainspoken,
direct man.

“Something like that. Same with me, I suppose, at least for
today.” Brannis was clad in fine raiment, befitting his station. He wore black
silk under a sleeveless short-coat that bore the Solaran crest, along with grey
hose that did little to keep his legs warm. The first day of springtime though
it was, Kadris was very far south. “No armor for me today. Too gaudy, the
warlock said, and I cannot disagree. I would prefer fewer eyes on me today than
I usually draw.”

“No trouble about that today, I’m thinking, sir,” Drecker
replied. “I was just a boy when Emperor Dharus was wed and I do not recall this
much fuss.”

“Well, I think you were probably put on your father’s shoulder
to watch the parade and little more. Of course it seemed less than it was. This
time you get to be a part of the show—and see how much time we waste on it that
could be better spent preparing to fight Megrenn at Munne,” Brannis said.

“Well, these things seem a bit more frisky than a ship at
sea and faster than any vessel that has set in water. We draft nothing but fog
now. Unless we run amiss, two days ought to see it in Munne,” Drecker said.

“On the subject of running amiss … do not fly over the
wedding site. Aim wide of it and circle the perimeter. If anything goes wrong,
I do not want trumpets, musicians, or—I daresay—ships, falling onto the
guests,” Brannis said.

“Anything you should be telling me about these that I don’t
know?” Drecker asked. Brannis could not tell if his suspicion was feigned or if
he was masking real concern.

“No, I think you were already aware that these are the first
of their kind, that I drew them up from plans I saw in a dream, and that I
dropped out of the Academy before learning proper rune theory.” Brannis smiled
reassuringly. “What could go wrong?”

* * * * * * * *

Rashan was surrounded by a pack of ravenous functionaries,
pestering him with last-moment details that "absolutely required his
personal attention.” The wine steward did not have enough of the chosen vintage
for everyone at the feast—could they switch, or should they have two different
ones? The Archons had decided to bring more of their household servants and now
outnumbered the Solarans by some fifty guests—should some be seated among the
Solarans or would it be best to just leave the sides imbalanced? Some Fifth
Circle sorcerer brought news via the speaking stone in Munne that Temble Hill
had been taken the previous night—should they relay any new orders? A young knight
had been sent to inquire about the circumstances of the deaths of two squires
earlier in the morning. The blood-scholars wanted his seal on the wedding
documents.

“Bring up the second vintage. Half the guests could not tell
a Tameron vintage from horse piss. … Just let the unaffiliated guests balance
the seating. … Marshal Brannis has that situation under control. All is
according to his expectations. … It was an accident in training. Please pass my
sympathies on to their families, and see that they want for nothing. … I have
not seen my personal seal in over a hundred winters. Make do for now; I will
not hold up the ceremony for such nonsense.”

Rashan paused, causing those keeping pace with him to jostle
one another in an effort not to walk into the warlock. There was a faint,
familiar tingling in the aether. Rashan smiled.

“You are all dismissed. You may bother me again after the
feast tonight.”

The functionaries knew better than to argue—many had
replaced men who had lost their posts for doing so—and hastened to remove
themselves from the warlock’s presence.

The warlock ducked quickly into a nearby vacant room. The
tingling sensation grew stronger, and before him appeared a female form—roughly
Rashan’s size, with smooth skin the color of a fawn’s fur and tangled green
hair that fell to the tops of her plump breasts. From beneath her hair curled
two delicate horns, shaped like a ram’s, but thinner. She was clad in a simple,
strapless gown of diaphanous white and nothing else; her tiny bare feet hung just
above the floor, with the tips of her toes just touching. Her overlarge brown
eyes gulped in Rashan’s image and she smiled.

“I was beginning to think you were not coming, Illiardra,”
Rashan said, returning the smile.

He was always impressed with her command of aether. The
thunder of his own transference spell was enough to shake buildings—wasted
aether, but impressive to the peasantry who knew no better. Hers took only
herself, not a scoop from the world about her, and she could avoid alerting a
sleeping dragon should she appear next to one, so subtle was the disruption is
caused. Had he not been waiting on her appearance, he might have missed it
himself.