Aethersmith (Book 2) (69 page)

“And do what?”

“Bring two sides closer together. Arrange a truce, before we
are all consumed by the war.”

* * * * * * * *

Brannis had hated the idea the moment he thought of it,
Soria knew, yet he suggested it anyway.
I am sure he had dreamed of some
sweet little reunion, but he’s gotten smarter than that. He might still have
his chance to talk to the peasant girl, but not until I have made certain she
is safe.
The trust Brannis showed in her was more valuable than all the
coin in the purse she had left behind in their room, the caches she had hidden
across Tellurak, and everything House Archon owned.

Soria skulked along the streets of Scar Harbor, clad once
more in the dark, hooded ensemble. Even though there was nothing unsavory about
being out late at night and Scar Harbor was likely safe enough for an
unescorted young lady who was
not
a trained Tezuan warrior, she preferred
to remain unseen. Whoever might be involved in Kyrus’s conspiracy—and somehow
she thought that it was Kyrus at work here, not Brannis—she wanted to give them
as little knowledge about her and Brannis as possible. The fact that she was
starting to see differences between Brannis and Kyrus—beyond the obvious
physical differences—was irksome to her.

Soria remembered the way to the peasant girl’s studio, which
doubled as her home. The route she took to get there avoided the lamp-lit main
thoroughfares, and took her through alleys, and over estate walls. She envied
Faolen’s illusions right then, since she could have made the trip in half the
time, a tenth the effort, and with no chance of being seen, had she the ability
to turn invisible.

There was a light in one of the upper-story windows. It was
faint, orange, small. It had to have been a single candle. A few fools were
reckless enough and scared enough of the dark to keep a lit candle by the
bedside, but the peasant girl did not seem to be the type. Tooth-rotting
saccharine optimism did not fit with being frightened of the dark of one’s own
bedchamber.
It does not fit with being Celia Mistfield, either,
Soria
thought bitterly.

Was it even possible for nascent twinborn to be so different
in demeanor? Soria could not conceive of it. She and Juliana had been joined
for so long that the line between them was naught but a smudge. Kyrus and
Brannis had been aware of one another a few months, but aside from superficial
traits, they were mostly the same: a scholar with a heart of a hero, stubbornly
naive, too clever to twist except by womanly charms. She smiled, knowing that
hers were the charms that worked best on him, or rather that hers and Juliana’s
worked the best on them. Sourly, she reminded herself that they were not the
only
charms that worked at all.

It was time to meet Abbiley Tillman once again, this time
knowing that she was Celia on the other side.

Soria edged her way up the side of the studio, finding a few
handholds, and making them work for the whole of the climb. Her long limbs and
strong fingers made it easy work; once she reached and took hold of the sill,
it was child’s play. A quick check of the aether showed a single Source inside,
lying down. She pulled herself up to see inside in the light.

There were two bedrolls laid out on the floor, not even
proper beds with posts and frame. One was vacant, the other held a sleeper,
camped near the candle, possibly awake, possibly asleep. With great care to
remain silent, Soria edged her grip on the sill until she could push herself
through the window. She was glad that the night was warm enough that the window
had been left open.

Creeeeeaaak.

Her undoing was the old woodwork. Thin as she was, Soria’s
weight was plenty to set the sill to creaking. The sleeper rolled over,
startled by the noise. Soria took no time to think, but vaulted into the room,
rushing to prevent a cry of alarm.

Soria’s hand clamped over a mouth. Even through her gloves,
she knew it was not the peasant girl. The sleeper had been male, with a wide
jaw and a nose bigger than Celia’s, for certain. Soria conjured a tiny light,
counting on her mask to hide her identity, and reveal that of the man she had
just assaulted.

Boy.

Soria corrected herself immediately on seeing the youthful
features. He had unwrinkled skin marked with reddish blemishes, and a paltry
scruff of beard that reminded her of Iridan. His hands came up to fend her off,
and she quickly realized that, boy or not, he was nearly full grown and
physically stronger than her. Soria changed tactics.

While she could not manage illusions like Faolen, there were
a few tricks that came close. She let her light spell end, and conjured two
soft, red lights, locating them on her own eyes. It made it dreadfully hard to
see, so she let her vision switch to aether. Of course, aside from the scant
candlelight, all the boy would see would be the illumination of two red eyes.

“Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me. Pleeeease don’t kill me. I’ll
have the money soon, I swear,” the boy said as soon as he was able to push
Soria’s hand free of his face.

“Your name,” Soria said, making her voice as gravelly as she
could. It was difficult sounding intimidating with a naturally high voice. She
kept her words to a minimum.

“Uh, uh, Neelan.”

“Where’s Abbiley?”

“I ain’t tellin’ you where my sister’s at.”

“Stupid boy,” Soria said. “I am not going to hurt her. You?
Maybe.”

“Well, you can’t get her anyway,” Neelan said. “Tomas
Harkwick’s courtin’ her now. You give her trouble, you’ll deal with him and
Lord Harwick. Even you lot ain’t fer havin’ that kind of trouble as what they
can make for you.”

“How long?”

“How long what?” Neelan asked, starting to get the
impression he was not the object of the red-eyed shadowy figure who had invaded
his home.

“Courting her for how long?”

“Months? I dunno. She barely comes home at all most nights.
They done made up a room for her at the lord’s estate. Just … Just leave her
alone, all right? Even if she’s got a lord to protect her now, don’t mean I
can’t look after her too, right?”

“She loves him?”

“How would I know? Yeah, sure, I guess. She thinks he’s
gonna marry her.”

Soria gave Neelan a shove as she turned all the lights went
out, two red, one orangish candle glow. In a ruffle of cloaks and a few quick,
quiet footsteps, she vanished out the window.

Chapter 39 - Crossroads of War

The city of Kanem sat at the border of Kadrin and Megrenn.
In more cordial times, it served as the first Megrenn settlement along the most
heavily traveled land route between Kadris and Zorren. Being a trade city had
given them coin to spare, and like the rest of Megrenn, they had prepared for
war. The city wall was new, and in pristine order, tall and thick, with high
towers outfitted with catapults. It was a city poised on the border of their
enemy, and expected to be the first to feel the brunt of any counteroffensive.

Ever since the first day of springtime, the city had been on
guard for signs of Kadrin troop movement. As Megrenn forces pushed ever farther
into Kadrin territory, fears of the Empire’s reprisals lessened. Trade within
Megrenn still carried on apace; fears of war plied themselves against the scent
of gold and lost, as they always seemed to in the end.

When a Kadrin airship was spotted flying past in the north,
within Megrenn territory, the lax attitude snapped back into its proper shape.
With no enemy ground forces in sight, the soldiers patrolling the walls called
for the gates to be partially closed. Horsemen rode out to herd the traders
inside the city with all haste, convincing caravan leaders to quicken their
plodding pace lest they arrive at Kanem to find the city shut tight against
invasion.

Amid the chaos of merchants and horse cavalry mixing upon
the roads, no one thought much of a lone traveler in homespun clothes, leading
his gelding afoot. He was part of no caravan, carried nothing but the clothes
he wore and a few packs slung across the back of his equine companion. When the
horsemen told him to hurry, he did, quickening his pace, and falling in amid
the myriad travelers whose days had been compressed by the urgency the Megrenn
outriders were conveying.

Cursory checks were made by the gate guards, but contraband
was low on their priorities with the thought that Kadrin forces might have
landed nearby. The wooden sailing ships had been harassing Megrenn forces of
late, ferrying reinforcements about to head off assaults. It seemed to them
that it had come time for them to land troops inside Megrenn and add a new
chapter to the war.

The lone traveler took note of this, opinions of their state
of mind and all, as he was ushered through the Kanem gates. He looked upon the
walls, studied the armaments of the guards, and critiqued their search
techniques as they interviewed caravaneers. He did this silently of course, for
no impoverished wanderer ought to be a connoisseur of well-run armies. No old
mule-drover ought to remember Kanem as a simple border outpost with wooden
palisades and a dusty marketplace, a mere stopover on the journey from the
Kadrin heartlands to Zorren and the foreign ports her ships sailed to.

But Rashan Solaran did.

The airship
Ironspar
had left him on the plains north
of Kanem, on a lightly traveled road between one of the little hamlets of rural
Megrenn and the main tradeway. There had been a father and son making a trip to
Kanem. Rashan had slain them both, and taken their mule as a lark, deciding on
the spot to sneak inside the city in disguise. It had been too long since he
had been free to indulge such whims.

Now that he was inside, Rashan began looking around for
weaknesses. The city was of modern design, built up with newfound Megrenn
wealth. The walls bore Ghelkan wards, glowing uniformly in the aether, little
tested by weather, and never having seen war. There were troops in plenty,
though it was a mere curiosity to the demon; nothing without the means to
attack him in the aether was of any true concern to him. While it was never a
precise art, he singled out a few Sources that might be strong enough to
indicate sorcerers about. None worried him; only the strongest were worth
worrying about. To all appearances, he was clear of such impediments.

Satisfied that he had free rein, Rashan looked up at the
fortified towers. He idly counted the men up on the walls as he did so, but he
was looking for something else. He spotted it along the wall, built into a
modest wooden frame with a slat roof above: an alarm bell. A malevolent grin
spread across his face as he reached out with a simple telekinesis spell, and
shoved the bell, reveling in the sound of chaos about to spread.

The ringing of the alarm bell, too sheltered and too heavy
to have been sounded accidentally or by wind, signaled that the enemy had been
sighted. The guards rushed the last of the road travelers they could manage to
get within the city walls as they made ready to close and bar the gates. Rashan
watched them work, noting that they were doing quite a remarkable job under the
circumstances. Whether they were seasoned in combat or not, he could do with
having soldiers like those of the Kanem garrison.

As Rashan stood admiring the fruits of his mischief, one of
the many fresh arrivals to the city crossed too close to him. The man, stocky
and with a wobbling gait, jostled into Rashan, shoulder to shoulder, sending
the warlock stumbling a pace. With an annoyed pique, Rashan held him in place
with magic. Allowing his illusory disguise to fade, he spun the man about like
a wooden soldier in a child’s playtime march, allowing the man to watch as
Rashan drew Heavens Cry, and slid it through his belly.

Rashan left the man to spill his innards out onto the dirt
streets of Kanem, still held upright, and strode over to the city gate. His
action had not gone unnoticed. Dozens had watched in horror as he murdered a
helpless traveler. A handful had taken note when an old man in careworn clothes
faded, only to be replaced by a sword-wielding Kadrin sorcerer. Screams and
pointing had eliminated everyone else from the ranks of the oblivious, and word
of his presence sparked a general panic on the streets.

Rashan continued onward, unfazed. Kanem was a new city, with
all the latest fortifications. The city gates opened inward, with a portcullis
able to drop down behind. It was an excellent defense against rams, and made
the gates nearly as impregnable as the outer walls. However …

With a metallic snap, and a clatter of chains, Rashan’s
magic broke the portcullis free, dropping it into place behind the city gate
with no ready means for the garrison soldiers to lift it again. Satisfied that
one of the two city gates was unusable for the time being, Rashan jogged across
Kanem, herding terrified peasants in his path, to the southern gate. Having
outpaced any coherent account of what he had done in the north, the guards at
the southern gate had lowered the portcullis on their side themselves. Rashan
had but to snap the chains to render that gate useless as well.

Rashan knew that any city, even one as new as Kanem, must
have other means of egress. That was less of a concern than allowing a mass
exodus, however.

Rashan attempted to count as he killed, but it was a
hopeless task. He found five who opposed him with some form of sorcery, but the
common soldiers died by the hundreds, the peasants by the thousands. When
Rashan finally blasted down the southern city gate, he had found threescore and
more Kadrins among those within Kanem. He gave them free rein of the city, and
leave to take whatever they wished as they headed home to the Empire.

* * * * * * * *

“Well, it is not as if I wanted to let them escape!”
Narsicann shouted. The Council was holding one of their few closed sessions in
the aftermath of the escape of the prisoner Faolen Sarmon and his hostage,
Anzik Fehr. “That thing wasn’t human, whatever it was.” The rest of the Council
members kept to their assigned seats, but Narsicann stood up from his as he
spoke, and Jinzan paced, clutching the Staff of Gehlen.

“What did this demon look like?” Jinzan asked, trying to
focus his thoughts along practical paths. Denrik Zayne had spent most of an
irritable day pondering the nighttime raid on Zorren and what it meant. It was
the nearest most twinborn came to having nightmares. Little had he known upon
Jinzan retiring for the night that Anzik had been found and lost in the span of
that frantic chase.

“It looked young,” Narsicann began.

Jinzan nodded slightly, knowing that Rashan Solaran appeared
as little more than adolescent. Still, he suspected it to be Kyrus, as he had
guessed during the night.

“Tall, light hair, dressed in black, though all the Kadrin
sorcerers seem to favor the dark. I did not note the color of his eyes or
whether he had a pretty smile. If you want such detail, you can go find him
yourself. That is what you got
that
thing for, after all.” Narsicann
pointed to the staff.

“Not small, not white haired. Are you certain?” Jinzan
asked. He had been worried, but was not sure which adversary was worse. The
demon would oppose them, he knew that with absolute certainly; Rashan Solaran
was the living embodiment of aggression, the avatar of war incarnate. Kyrus
Hinterdale was a thinker. Somewhere within the boy, paired opposite him world
for world, was the heart of a knight. He was not battle shy, but seemed to have
more sense than to rush off blithely into the lair of his enemy.

“I could not judge exactly but he appeared tall enough. The
hair was most certainly not white. Of course, he could have used any of a
number of simple tricks to change his hair color if you saw him differently,”
Narsicann conceded.

“His Source. Did you get a look at his Source?”

“No,” Narsicann admitted. “There was too much magic about.
It was blinding the second I tried to shift my vision. I know the Kadrins have
some strong sorcerers, but I cannot fathom there being another of such power
that we did not know about.”

“Explain from the beginning,” Jinzan said. “Leave out no detail.”

The Council sat and listened as Narsicann gave his account
of the events of the previous night. The spymaster was no great storyteller,
but his profession had given him a keen eye for detail, and a habit of
remembering those details. His tale was dry and professorial. From his telling,
you could almost imagine that he had not been there at all, merely reading from
reports of those who were. By the end, they knew the name of the dead
stripe-cat rider who had carried Narsicann to the scene of the escape, the size
and estimated complement of the Kadrin airship, and had descriptions of the
mystery sorcerer, the airship captain, and the two Kadrins who had absconded
with Anzik, one of whom they already knew was Faolen Sarmon.

Jinzan could say little enough in open Council, but as he
heard bits here and there, they clicked into place like the tumblers in a lock.
It was most certainly Kyrus Hinterdale who had transferred into Zorren.
Denrik’s conversations with Tanner and Stalyart over the past few days had given
him enough background to know that the airship captain was Juliana Archon, the
same slip of a sorceress that Brannis Solaran had thrown himself atop to save
in the mines of Raynesdark. That Faolen was telling the truth about his
connections through Tellurak was obvious; between him and Kyrus, they had
devised the escape plan, sending the airship once he was able to free himself
from his cell. When Juliana Archon was pulled from her ship, she must have
turned to Brannis in Tellurak—her counterpart had to be with him. Kyrus came
almost immediately thereafter, by Narsicann’s timeline.

Much of the information was merely interesting. He had no
way to get to either Brannis or Soria Coinblade, but felt better for
understanding how he had been bested. It was simpler than his own escape from
Rellis Island had been, but it was better than having a mystery on his hands.
The best news of all, though, was that Kyrus had arranged for Tanner to be his
ambassador. In Kyrus’s hands, Anzik might become a commodity, but he could make
a deal. Had it been Rashan Solaran, he knew it would merely be a matter of how
much torment the demon would inflict on him before realizing that the boy’s
peril could not get him to betray Megrenn.

“Jinzan?” Kaynnyn asked.

Jinzan blinked a few times, realizing that he had been
staring out the window as he pondered. “My apologies. My mind turns over the
possibilities.” It sounded like a poor excuse to his own ears, but he had his
supporters.

“Just remember that sort of concentration when you fight
Rashan Solaran,” Narsicann said. “You are the only one who can stop him. I am
sorry your son was taken, but better that you have the Staff of Gehlen. With
that, there is hope that anything can be salvaged from this.”

“Yes.”

“Jinzan,” Kaynnyn said to him, “we have troops ready to take
Illard’s Glen. It is a small force, and could well use a practiced hand at
sacking the city.” The old general smiled at him, her teeth as white as her
close-cropped hair. Jinzan was supposed to be above such trivial feelings, but
he felt his spirits buoyed by her support. She had inspired Megrenn armies in
the Freedom War, and he finally felt what it was like to be the one needing
morale. He found himself nodding without realizing he was doing so.

“Very well,” he said. “I shall go there and lend what aid
they need. The defenses were a shambles last I saw them; it should not take
overmuch force to see the city toppled again. I will return afterward with no
delay. We have seen that Zorren is vulnerable. I should be here to defend it as
much as is feasible.”

“I will see about contacting the Ghelkans for more of the
speaking helms. A dedicated pair of them could leave you with one while its
mate remains here with the Council,” Narsicann suggested. The others voiced
their consent, and by common accord, they considered the meeting adjourned.
Councilor Feron Dar-Jak stayed behind to conduct another meeting with the
Interior Ministry as the rest made their way to the exit.

As the two men passed through the doorway side by side,
Varduk took Jinzan aside briefly.

“We will get Anzik back. Do not think that with all else
that goes on, that he has been overlooked. There are just … so many things that
demand attention. Anzik … well, he never did demand much attention, did he?”