Aethersmith (Book 2) (49 page)

Narsicann picked up one of the blankets from the floor,
giving it a look over as it began to smolder. As it caught fire, he tossed it
into a corner of the room piled with soiled clothing.

A form slipped from under the bed, hooded cloak pulled low
to shield the face from the view of both Megrenn sorcerers. Quick as a hare,
the cloaked figure dashed to the window, and dove headlong through it,
splintering the shutters. Narsicann raced to the window to see where the
fugitive had gone.

“Look out! The Kadrin is on the move!” he shouted out to the
sentries stationed all around the shop.

Jinzan knew that he was too old to be leaping out windows to
pursue anyone. After recovering from his initial surprise, he made for the
doorway. He bumped into something that he did not see, immediately realizing
the ruse they had both just fallen for. He reached out, and grabbed what felt
like an arm.

“I have him!” Jinzan shouted. He clawed at magic he could
not see, hoping to unravel the aether construct that wrapped the Kadrin
sorcerer in invisibility. The arm he held onto struggled; he felt a hand on his
own, trying to pry loose his grip.

The invisibility spell gave way against Jinzan’s efforts …
and he saw that he was holding onto none other than Rashan Solaran! The vile demonic
warlock stopped struggling, and just grinned at him, a look that promised a
death at his own leisure. Jinzan let go and stumbled away, preparing to fight
for his life.

Rashan turned and ran, vanishing again as he passed through
the doorway.

Not the real Rashan …

Jinzan cursed his gullibility. He was about to give chase
when he heard Narsicann’s spell chant. The spymaster pushed past him mid spell,
reaching the doorway just as he was finishing.

“
… daxgak sevdu wenlu.
” Narsicann pointed down the
stairs, and forks of lightning flooded the way down. They caught something in
their path just before reaching the foot of the stairway, adding a smell of
cooked flesh to the heavy ozone scent that they created. Something invisible
slumped to the ground, giving off wisps of visible smoke.

“Nicely done,” Jinzan commented, nodding in appreciation of
Narsicann’s work.

“I am of a mind to let the place finish burning down. If the
accomplice is here somewhere as well, he will either try to escape, or burn.”

Jinzan worked to unravel yet another invisibility spell as
they descended the stairs, finding the true visage of the man who might yet
know the location of the Staff of Gehlen. Bereft of illusionary protection,
Jinzan could see a living Source still within him.

“You do good work, Narsicann. He still breathes.”

“He is going to need that breath soon. I am eager to test
out this new theory of yours on restraining captive sorcerers.”

* * * * * * * *

The wagon bearing Zellisan and Wendell had parted from the
caravan shortly after dawn, having spent the night in the group’s protection.
As they headed north into the low mountains, the trees to all sides were decked
in vibrant red, orange, and yellow. Zellisan had a look on his face that could
have been mistaken for homesickness, had he not been a hardened, black-hearted
coinblade—his native Acardia looked much the same in autumn as the leaves
turned. Wendell was Acardian born as well, but felt little attachment to his
birthland, traveling all his life as he had. If the colored foliage held a
place in his memories, the sight still would have been lost on him, his eyes
remaining unfocused as he looked out into the woods they drove through.

Wendell had problems, Faolen’s problems, weighing heavily on
him. With problems beyond a certain level of severity, most men need to turn to
someone for guidance, support … empathy even. But the wagon driver was an
elderly Takalish gentlemen who barely spoke Acardian, and Wendell was far from
fluent in Takalish. As for Zellisan …

Wendell sighed, and stared at the scenery, if only because
he preferred to keep his eyes open, and they needed somewhere to face. Closing
them, he might fall asleep with the gentle rolling of the wagon, and the
pleasant, woodsy smell in the air. What he would see in his sleep was something
he did not want to witness right about then.

He had not been able to eat. The first mouthful of jerky he
had swallowed still sat disquieted in his stomach, threatening to come back up
at any moment. He had not attempted a second bite.

The wagon driver whistled amiably as the morning wore on,
tunes that struck no familiar chord in Wendell’s mind. He tried to follow the
melodies, but the driver was no musician, and the tunes were inconsistent.
I
must set my mind to rights before we arrive
, Wendell chided himself.
My
mission was crucial before but somehow is much more so now. I can make it all
an act if I must but I have to prevail.

Pious Grove Sanctuary sat nestled among the mountains,
rather than far up the side of them. The road wound its way gradually up and
through the low-lying foothills, and around the smallest of the mountains in
the Sali Peaks range. Around one final bend, the woods overhanging the road
parted, revealing an old but well-kept compound of stone buildings, the largest
of which was four stories tall with gabled rooftops and creeping vines climbing
the walls.

It was at that largest of buildings that their driver
stopped the wagon, and let Zellisan and Wendell disembark. People bustled about
the compound at various chores and errands, and the driver set off to find
someone whose task was to tend to horses, leaving the two foreigners standing
before the large double-doors that led inside the heart of the sanctuary.

One of the staff noticed them waiting outside, uncertain of
what to do with the wide-open doors that would have allowed them free access to
a facility they were entirely unfamiliar with. The middle-aged man in humble
grey attire told them in slow, clear Takalish—the sort that one uses when
speaking to someone they think cannot understand a word of what they are
saying—to wait, gesturing with palms held outward to make clear his intent. He
then scurried off down one of the side corridors.

 Zellisan turned to Wendell, and shrugged. Wendell stared
after the man, his heart quickening in his chest.
Relax. There will be no
troubles here. These folk are healers, not monsters.

They did not have long to wait before an elderly woman
approached them, their initial greeter in tow. She was bone thin with wrinkled
ebony skin hanging loosely about her cheeks and arms, but unbent by age. She
had no hair at all, sunlight reflecting off her shiny scalp as she emerged into
the daylight. Her pale blue eyes were alert and vibrant, making her broad smile
seem warm and inviting.

“Welcome to Pious Grove, travelers. I am Nephanti,” the old
woman greeted them in Takalish.

“I Wendell. This man Zellisan,” Wendell introduced them, his
Takalish something he was less than boastful of.

“I speak Acardian as well, if it would be easier, Mr.
Wendell,” Nephanti said, chuckling softly. “Though I give you credit for
trying. Many foreigners come here and babble away until they realize that the
person they are talking to cannot understand a word of Acardian, or Kheshi, or
whatever language they brought here from far away.”

“Are you the translator, then?” Wendell asked, feeling much
more at ease now that he would not be having to perform his act speaking in
Takalish.

“It is one of my many tasks here. Mostly I oversee what
everyone else does, though,” Nephanti replied. Realization dawned on Wendell,
but Zellisan recovered more quickly.

“I am sorry, my lady. We did not know,” Zell said, hastily
smoothing down his unruly hair.

“Nonsense, I am no ‘lady.’ I am no more important than any
other here, just busier than most. I am too old to spend all day in the gardens
or the woods, too weak to tend horses or the adult patients who cannot lift
themselves from bed. So I spend days making sure folk remember their tasks,
write letters to beg donations from men who have money to spare, and need their
conscience cleansed; I help tend to the children when time allows, and I greet
guests, whom we receive far too infrequently. You and your friend look in fine
health generally, though you might do with some food by the look of you, Mr.
Wendell.”

“Thank you, Sister Nephanti.” Wendell figured that was the
best translation of her title into Acardian. “I am sure that having as few
visitors as you do, you must be wondering as to the reason for our being here.”

“I had supposed you would come to it in time. I am a busy
woman, but not so busy that I need to badger our guests with questions upon
their arrival,” Nephanti responded.

“Well, professionally, I call myself Wendell the Wizard. I
am a traveling magician,” Wendell said.

“Oh, how delightful!” Nephanti said, her smile broadening.
“We have not had an entertainer pass through in years.”

“I would like to perform for your residents. Also, I find
myself in search of a young boy who I believe may be here.”

“Oh, what boy?” Nephanti asked, eyes narrowing a little, not
giving the appearance of suspicion so much as a shrewd curiosity.

“I do not know yet myself,” Wendell admitted, smiling in
what he hoped was a self-deprecating manner. His stomach twisted itself in
knots. “But I will know him if I see him.”

“Some relation of yours, perhaps?”

“Nothing so straightforward as that. You see, I am advancing
in my years, and I begin to realize that I only have so much time left to
properly pass along my trade to the next generation. I seek an apprentice,” Wendell
stated, painting an earnest grin on his face to distract from his sweating.

“This seems an unlikely place to find one, but I will not
begrudge you looking. We take care of the children as best we can, but learning
proper trades is something we struggle to provide. They learn enough to earn
their keep, and a few of the staff here grew up as orphans in our care. Most
leave when they come of age, to make what they can from what fortune provides.
Can you say, though, that yours is a proper trade, sir?”

“Proper as any that takes on orphan apprentices, I would
say. No boy born of unknown parents is likely to be taken on by a barrister or
a physician, but I would lay my stake upon mine being as good a life as any
baker or cobbler can offer. A boy would have a roof over his head each night,
though they may be many different roofs; but that is because he would also get
to see the world. A butcher’s boy might know a dozen men as brothers, but I
know a thousand as friends. A boy apprenticed to a carpenter will learn to make
chairs and tables, but I will show him how to make smiles appear on unfriendly
faces.” Wendell had rehearsed what he would say, but none of that came out. He
spoke instead from the heart.

“How will you know the right boy when you see him?” Nephanti
asked.

“Why … using my magic, of course.”

That afternoon, in a dining hall where the wooden tables and
long benches had been pushed aside to leave a floor-level stage, Wendell was
allowed to perform his act for the residents of the Pious Grove Sanctuary. It
was filled with a bedraggled assemblage of discarded humans, orphans, and the
very sickly. They wore homespun clothes that appeared threadbare, but well
cared for. Patches were sewn in here and there; all had the look of being
washed regularly for many years. Zellisan sat well off to the side, with
Nephanti and the staff who could be spared for an afternoon’s diversion.
Wendell scanned the crowd, looking for a boy who might be Anzik’s twin. There
were too many faces, though, packed too close together. Wendell’s eyesight was
not so keen as it had been in his younger years, either.

Nephanti gave the crowd a brief introduction of the act,
sparing Wendell the need to converse in Takalish. His Acardian would have been
understood by many, at least; the residents of Pious Grove, unlike the staff,
were a diverse bunch. A majority were still native Takalish, understandable
since orphans are not the most well-traveled lot, but there were
lighter-skinned peoples mixed among them as well. Takalia was renowned for their
acceptance of foreigners in their charitable homes, and Pious Grove Sanctuary
was among the best-known across the seas.

Wendell began his act as normal, with simple tricks using
coins and cards. He pulled scarves from his sleeves, and had them dance about.
He placed his hat on his head, and walked about, leaving the hat hanging in the
air until he stopped beneath it once more. The crowd laughed and applauded.

As the show drew to a close, he performed one last trick,
one that he’d had in mind since learning that Anzik Fehr was twinborn. He began
his juggling doves trick, a variant of the one he had worked in Marker’s Point.
Doves rose and fell like cloth balls as he tossed them about, until they
rebelled, and began flying about the room, still returning to his hands
occasionally to be launched anew.

“If you would translate, please,” said Wendell as he turned
to Nephanti, who was enchanted with the whimsical display.

She nodded her agreement.

“If there is one among you who would like to learn magic, as
my apprentice, first catch a dove,” Wendell spoke loud enough for the whole
room to hear him. Nephanti echoed his words in Takalish.

Wendell had used nonsensical magical gibberish amid his
spells throughout the show, but he switched to Megrenn, which only one in the
audience ought to have been able to understand: “If you are Anzik, you must
catch a dove,” Wendell said.

As if in response to a magical incantation, the doves broke
off their pattern of flight. As a flock, they flew across the room just over
the heads of the crowd. Boys, girls, men, and women all laughed as they jumped
and grabbed, save for a few too sickly to make the attempt. There were jokes
and teasing and cries of dismay as everyone failed to grab hold of one; they
were mere illusion, and hands passed through them. One bird, however, bigger
and slower than the rest, flew lazily over the crowd. It had a bit of substance
to it. It was also invisible, but in the aether would stand out from the rest
as a brighter bird among the paltry magics that formed the others.